


The Hunt

by Lamshire



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Legendary Weapon Aquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-05-02 23:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamshire/pseuds/Lamshire
Summary: A seasoned hunter embarks on a perilous journey that takes him across Tyria facing many challenges— meeting friends new and old along the way. With the threat of another dragon looming on the horizon, will he find what he's been searching for?Set in 1327-1328 AE, ties loosely to Living World Season 2 and Heart of Thorns.





	1. A Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome <3  
> This is my first stab at writing so I hope you'll enjoy!

To most, Snowden Drifts is an inhospitable place. The harsh, icy winds seep into the bone and its ferociousness rips apart all senses. Wild wolves run rampant across the snowy plains, attacking travellers unsuspecting and ill-prepared. To most, it would be unbearable. But to the Norn it is home. 

Now, a path cuts through what was once a heartless, untamed landscape leading into the Shiverpeak Mountains. It is off this road, a forest resides isolated from all else. The blanketing snow thick and undisturbed, the trees grow a healthy grey—taller and older than most. A single fallen trunk lays snapped in two at the base, its column brittle and weak with age. Inside the leaves atop this petrified tree a person lies in wait.

White fur obscures the figure, blending in seamlessly with the surrounding snow if not for the soft, red glow emanating underneath. Vega stays perfectly still, crouched low with his legs wound tight. His left arm hangs forward gripping onto the smooth, seasoned wood of his short bow. He feels a faint tingle from the cold, pulsing steadily through each fingertip on his right hand but quells the urge to move. He has been like this for hours. The wolves have steered clear of this area for some days now, it was only a matter of time before he finds what he’s been looking for.

He feels the ground reverberate before it comes into view.

A colossal moa, towering over even the tallest of Norn, saunters through the trees. Its heavy claws crunch the snow beneath, shaking the trunks with each passing step and pillowing its black feathers with white flakes rippled from the leaves above. Vega’s hand twitches, itching to reach for the poison tipped arrows he’s prepared beside him.   
_Patience._ His crimson eyes are unblinking as he follows the moa’s path through the clearing; a thin line of wire tied between the last two trees glistens indistinctly in the waning sunlight and he smirks. _Everything falls into place._

The wire snaps with nary a sound but to Vega’s ears it rings loud and clear. He takes a deep breath and rises from his hiding spot. Three chains burst from the ground harpooning the bird in its legs and neck, clamping shut and pulling taunt. With an arch of his spine, he draws his bow fully using the corner of his eye as an anchor point and with a twang the arrow pierces the moa’s chest. It staggers slightly before locking eyes with him. 

The moa starts to thrash voraciously, the chains whining from the strain barely holding in place. The poison from a single arrow was enough to down a Minotaur but proved ineffective against the black moa. Vega doesn’t break his stance. His arms flex naturally, taking aim with honed speed and precision. In one smooth movement he shoots another two arrows, one hitting its mark before a link breaks by its leg. The moa lurches, escaping the other arrow by a hair's breadth. Seemingly undeterred the black beast drags the weight with it. When it turns the other two chains follow suit as it charges towards him at breakneck speed. He furrows his brows in concentration and releases a flurry of arrows but it is unexpectedly agile, dodging left and right in succession. It reaches him in the blink of an eye, slamming its enormous, yellow beak right on top of him. He narrowly evades the attack, leaping over the fallen trunk as it crushes the wood like paper. 

It swings its battering ram of a head his way and it is now that Vega truly takes in the sheer size of the creature. At full height he only reached its tar-feathered knees and its head was as wide as his arm span. He cranes his neck to watch its hardened beak spear at him with a speed and dexterity he did not think possible for a creature this large. He sidesteps the first couple of pecks; they leave craters in the snow, bursting the earth underneath with a mighty boom and he dreads the thought of it landing any hits. He jumps backwards and nocks another arrow from his quiver, resting it on his finger to take aim.

The arrow glances off the moa’s beak. It comes too close to dodge completely. Vega clutches the shaft of his short bow and holds it in front of him to lessen the blow. The limb shatters upon impact; the momentum flings him straight into a tree eliciting a pained grunt as he lands in the snow with a thud. The moa is back on him in seconds and he barely rolls away from its massive, powerful claws poised to land directly through his skull. A talon nicks him just under his eye and leaves specks of gold on the white ground. He gets up, tosses his broken quiver, the arrows inside snapped and useless, and unsheathes two long daggers tied neatly on each of his ankles. Then he runs. 

He weaves through the trees, leading the moa’s neck around the thin nape of a tree trunk before turning sharp and slicing at its legs. It squawks and snaps at his feet but can do little else with the limited room the dense forest provides. He ducks under its frantic kicks and stabs at the constricted flesh repeatedly. His strikes are not strong enough to leave deep cuts but after a few runarounds its limbs are stained red and stinging in the cold. Soon enough the moa goes back on the offensive—it gives chase, using its long reach to limit his movement. He takes note of the diminishing number of trees at his disposal and they reach the end of the forest in no time at all.

A jagged barricade of rocks envelope all sides leaving no exit but the way they came. Vega slowly inches back, panting heavily from their prolonged game of tag, holding his daggers in a defensive pose until his back hits the barrier. The moa emerges limping briskly towards him, its eyes scowling down at his vulnerable form. It stops a short distance from him, heaving air just as hungrily. It has him cornered. Vega’s eyes widen, black pupils shrinking as he watches the moa rear its head back and unfurl its pitch-black wings. He knows the power of a moa’s screech. Hunters have told many a tale about how it can leave a person discombobulated, dazed and with an incessant ringing for days, sometimes even rupturing the eardrums for good. He knows this, and he is ready.

Just before the moa opens its beak, Vega pulls at a string protruding from a crack in the wall. The mechanisms whirl and two bolas launch from crevices on either side, spinning rapidly and wrapping around their target, clamping its jaws securely shut. The weighted balls pull the moa down and he takes his chance. Using small rocks jutting out from the wall he leaps step by step until he is equal height with the beast. Bending his knees as much as he can, he propels upwards and backflips onto the moa’s head locking his legs tight around its neck for purchase. It flails, trying desperately to shake him off to no avail. He drives both daggers straight through its skull and holds. 

The thrashing becomes a weak sway.   
The sway turns to a halt.   
The great bird falls. 

Vega dislodges the daggers with a wet squelch and his legs shake with the effort to stand. He stares at the moa’s large, round eyes as they turn glossy and grey. As its life essence drains away he finds that he feels nothing at all.

 

The winds grow harsher as night begins to fall. The stars speckle the evening sky; their luminescence bathes the desolate tundra in a cool white. Although torches lining the path always stand vigilant, there are no travellers walking through tonight. The only sounds that break through the eventide stillness come from the homesteads of Norn rejoicing another day hard fought and well met. But none were more thunderous than the hunters residing at Podaga Steading, the largest lodge in Snowden Drifts.

Second only to the great halls in Hoelbrak, the structure casts an imposing shadow across the Skradden Slopes. Its oaken walls are formidable, an almost nauseating height. Shallow scrapes from Dredge drilling machines cover the surface, the metal seemingly incapable of penetrating the wood and stone. Its tremendous doors stand slightly agape, letting a glimpse of the warm glow bleed from within.

A multitude of furs adorn the walls, the trophies from countless victories and at its center a great fire bellows. The room is filled to the brim with boisterous men and women, the seductive flames compelling them to regale one another with stories of their hunts. With drinks aplenty, another round of ale makes its way towards a band of burly warriors, their laughter shaking the foundations.

“I swear on the Great Bear Spirit it was this tall!” The man declared; the bandages wrapped around his torso pulled tight as he stretched his arm as high as he could. “The young moa fled before I could give the finishing blow so I gave chase. And lo, by Snow Leopard’s swiftness the beast appeared! It was as if day became night at that very moment! The black of its feathers was all I could see, it was that monstrous.”

“The hunter became the hunted, did he?” His friend jests as she throws a punch to his bicep and downs her mug. He sneers at her and continues.

“But I was not unworthy prey! I swung at the bird with my mighty axes, cleaving at its belly with Bear’s strength,” he mimics the motion sloshing his drink in the air, “but its hide was too thick and it possessed the cunning of Fox, almost as if it could read my movements. It parried my strike and sunk its huge talons into my side,” he lifts his bandages to reveal the raw, crusty wound as his companions howl in excitement, “and I was flung so far I thought I had been given Raven’s wings!” They roar hysterically, some falling to the floor clutching their stomachs as the wounded Norn leaps from his seat to give a demonstration. 

He wipes a tear, “It was gone before I had come to. I hope our paths cross again.”

“All that for a bowl of poultry soup?”

“Bear’s breath! I didn’t even catch the baby one!”

The barkeep lets out a chuckle, not noticing the small figure standing in front of her. A deep voice resonates in her ear like the hum of air through a hollow log and her eyes glance down at the source.

“I’ve come to collect a reward.”

Standing there is a Sylvari, draped over his shoulders a pelt sullied by dirt and blood obscuring the rest of his garb. His bark is a dark, chipped birch, the left cheek protruding a particularly hardened piece as if the bark had grown over akin to a scab. His face is marred with shallow grooves like an aged tree, the cracks glow in red lines illuminating his sharp eyes. His pupils are dark pits and there is crimson where the whites should be. The light pulses through the red-brown leaves that taper down to his shoulders like bright veins radiant in the dim corner of the bar. 

“Spirits of the wild welcome you, little one. What reward have you come to claim?” 

She gestures to the wall behind her, rows of paper cascade down depicting bounties with various warnings and remunerations. The ones lower on the wall describe minor nuisances, easily completed and torn down on a regular basis. The ones with higher risks are placed above, waiting for worthy challengers to claim their prize. She follows the line of his hand as he points to the bounty in question. Her eyebrow raises as she turns back to him. 

“The Beak of Darkness?” 

When the name is uttered a lull falls over the room. The circle of warriors set their eyes on the Sylvari and shout incredulously. 

“That twig took down that gigantic moa? Now that’s the biggest load of yak dung I’ve ever heard!” 

“Sure as Wolf’s teeth it would have split him in half and used him like a toothpick!”

“I’d sooner shave a Charr than believe he defeated that beast singlehanded!” 

Laughter sweeps around the hearth and soon the Norn resume their merriment. The injured hunter waves his comrades off and lumbers toward the bar. He smiles down at the Sylvari,

“Pay my friends no mind. Too much ale in the belly loosens their tongues.” 

He rests an arm on the tabletop and leans in, “You know, I’ve faced The Beak of Darkness before and barely escaped with my life so I imagine someone of your...” He rolls his wrist pensively, “stature would have a hard time vanquishing such a creature!” He takes a swig of his mug, downing it with a satisfied sigh, “You have to admit it sounds a little far-fetched.”

“Be that as it may,” the barkeep intervenes, “I’ll need proof of the kill before I hand over the gold.”

The red glow seems to shine brighter as the sylvari smirks at her and jerks his head towards the doors before he moves to find a seat in the bustling hall. She makes her way outside and the warrior, ever curious, follows suit.   
An attentive bar maiden swaggers over with a drink in hand. The occasional inquisitive glance is thrown his way but he is unfazed, he hands the woman some coins, grasping the Norn-sized pint with two shaky hands and taking in a generous gulp. He lets out a relieved sigh and wipes the froth from his mouth just as a shout bellows through the lodge.

“BY OGDEN’S HAMMER!”

All heads turn in the direction of the doorway. Recognising their friends voice, the band of hunters chortle into their drinks.  
“Better check on our idiot before he goes and hurts himself again!”  
The female Norn declares and so they down their ale, slam their mugs onto the table and make their way out. 

A couple minutes go by until yells cut through the ambiance again and stuns the patrons to perplexed silence. Curiosity quickly takes over and more than half the room head to the entrance, the oaken doors sprawl open to accommodate the crowd. Even the workers are keen, the bar maiden absently refills the strange Sylvari’s mug before shuffling closer to watch the commotion.

At first they can see nothing but the cold air fogging their breath, then they spot the end of a rope thrown haphazardly onto the stone pavement. Its length stretches beyond the wooden bridge connecting the lodge to the Snow Leopard effigy; two lofty metal beams hold golden chalices, the flames burn brilliantly framing the steel sculpture in between. 

There they spot a black mass encroaching steadily towards the lodge. As it gets closer they spot the group, the barkeep standing with her boot on top of a dark mound and the band of Norn pulling a large cart. The lights inside the lodge illuminate the cargo and the head of the fabled moa lays limp encrusted with ice but from its sheer size the crowd instantly recognises the frozen corpse. Cheers start sounding off in waves; more and more Norn race up to the wagon, some grabbing at the rope while others push the sides eager to get the bird inside. 

Once they wheel the prize through the doors, the barkeep leaps off the cart and makes long strides to the back of the bar to retrieve a large sack of gold, its contents threatening to spill over and a mysterious bottle wrapped neatly in paper. 

“Tell us your name, great hunter and come claim your reward.”

Everyone hones in on the lone Sylvari. He stares back stoically, rising from his seat. His footsteps echo as he makes his way through the crowd parting for him in quiet reverence. When he makes it to the table, he stares pointedly at the bottle and lifts his head to address the tall woman.

“My name is Vega. I have no use for the gold, do with it what you will.”

With an amused scoff and toothy grin, the barkeep leans across the bar, with a twist she wraps her meaty arm around his neck turning him towards the crowd and throws a fist in the air.

“Then the Spirits have blessed us! Let the ale flow free tonight, this calls for a moot! Drinks are on our new friend, Vega!”

He stiffens at the contact and tries not to grimace as the roars become deafeningly loud, his ears bending back beneath his leaves. As the workers bring out tankards of ale and mugs overflow, he quickly swipes the bottle from the table and slides towards a more secluded area. The Norn congratulate him as he walks by and after a couple pats on the back they seem content to leave him and enjoy drinks at his expense. He finds a relatively empty space by the wall and brings a stool over. When the noise drowns out he truly takes in the prize in his hands. He eagerly pulls the wrappings free and a small smile etches on his face. 

The label reads Black Lion’s Reserve. Only once a year does Evon Gnashblade open his vaults and send out small casks of this reserve to small breweries across Tyria. This year’s stock is especially rare. When Lion's Arch was destroyed, the Black Lion Trading Company was fortunate enough to save, in his opinion, one of their most precious treasures. He uncorks the bottle and lets the dark liquid burn delectably down his throat. His eyes close shut as he savours the taste. The aged, rich, full-bodied brew has slight coffee, vanilla, and pecan flavours with a caramel finish that is not overly bitter and not overly sweet. He hasn’t eaten since this morning, too focused on the hunt, but the brew resting comfortable in his stomach fills him more than anything and warmth spreads through him more intense than the fire swallowing the room. He loses himself in the feeling for a moment before he hears his name being chanted in the distance.

The male Norn who was talking to him earlier has situated himself between the moa and the hearth surrounded by his comrades who eye him from across the room with hearty smiles. He waves his brawny arm enthusiastically, beckoning Vega over.

“The slayer of this magnificent beast shouldn’t be drinking alone in the corner! Come by the fire and give us the tale of its defeat, surely the battle was worthy of the skaalds!” 

After a few moments of pointed staring, Vega realises the Norn aren’t going to leave him be. Reluctantly he reseals the bottle and strides toward the rowdy bunch. They shuffle around, leaving enough room for him to sit between them in the center of the bonfire. The rest of the room who were keeping a respectable distance away sneak a little closer, leaning not-so-subtly on the edge of their seats with ears perked for the tantalizing tale about to unfold. He pays them no mind and positions himself between the male and female Norn at the top of the steps closest to the fire.

“There is not much to tell,” he gestures vaguely at the hollows on its head, “I struck through its skull and it ceased to be.” 

Moans of discontent sweep across the lodge and gales of laughter rip from the group of warriors as if he just told them the best joke they’ve ever heard. A large hand slaps his back as the man tries to collect himself.

“Bear’s jaws, my friend! You speak as if you killed an arctic bee and not a twelve-foot moa!”

The woman sitting on his other side bumps her fist against his shoulder.   
“Humility will do you no good here. The fire yearns for stories and so we must gloat and brag the night away!” she swings her arms wide and splashes some of her friends in the process.

The Norn sitting in front of her gingerly wipes her drink off his beard with a chuckle and looks up at Vega.

“Your story would stoke the flames especially. We don’t get many hunters who can take down monstrous prey by themselves. Let alone a Sylvari.” 

Another Norn pats the man’s shoulder and chimes in,  
“Don’t underestimate them. They learn strength from ivy and viciousness from blackberry bushes.”

Vega gives the man a polite smile, unsealing the reserve with a pop and taking a swig. 

“Let’s not forget that the Pact was forged by a couple of sylvari.” 

Vega stills.

“I heard the Pact Commander was the one that struck the final blow on Zhaitan!”

“An Elder dragon! Now that’s the biggest prey of them all!”

“Didn’t she also take down that madwoman Scarlet?”

The pit in his stomach coils sharply. The group continue chatting amongst themselves, he stares down blankly into the mouth of his bottle. The decadent liquor tasted little more than sludge now and even though they are right by the fire a dark chill starts creeping over him from the inside. He gives off the slightest of tremors but before anyone takes notice he stands and tips the whole bottle down his throat. 

The rush doesn’t allow him to taste it, scorching all the way down and igniting a tingle on the ends of his leaves. He isn’t quite sure if it’s the burning in his throat or the brew pumping hot through his veins that compels him to be more talkative but the chill does ebb away so he knows he needs more of it. The Norn pause and ogle as he finishes his drink in one impressive gulp. He expels the steam with a deep sigh and addresses the crowd.

“If you want to know how I felled the Beak of Darkness,” he turns and throws the bottle into the fire pit in one smooth motion, the glass shattering and the embers roar brighter from the residual liquid. His voice picks up in volume, “then more drinks are in order!” He gives the bewildered man beside him a wide, toothy grin, his red glow shining almost manic against the flames,   
“As you said, ale loosens the tongue.”

The man lets out a thunderous laugh.  
“That’s the spirit!”   
He calls some workers over for another round of ale.   
The commotion peaks the attention of the rest of the lodge and they crowd around the group tight and frantic. Tables are strewn to the side and chairs are hastily abandoned. Instead they sit shoulder to shoulder, cups filled to the brim eager for the little hunter to weave his tale. He raises his barrel of a mug high and with an elated howl the rest do the same. They drink the night away, lapping at his every word and in a room full of people easily twice his size, Vega feels tall. He knows the feeling never lasts long. So he continues to beguile— drawing out words, leaving dramatic pauses, captivating the audience before him, keeping himself distracted. 

By the time he finishes, the fire had become a smoulder. Between churning out every little detail of the hunt he could think of and declaring toasts about one thing or another he’s lost track of time. He’s also lost count of how many ales he’s had but staring blearily across the floor at the Norn blacked-out and sprawled gave him an inkling. At some point the man beside him decided his wolf pelt was a good pillow and was leaning heavily onto his shoulder. With a grunt Vega shrugs the fur off, the Norn’s head falls with it thumping on the timber. He throws a fist up meekly mumbling something along the lines of ‘Fame never dies!’ and goes back to snoring. Peering down at the sleeping figure, he takes a deep breath. He stretches, bark creeking softly in protest after sitting down for so long.

Vega descends from the firepit, avoiding the bodies splayed in a drunken stupor until he reaches the longtable where the barkeep is sharpening an array of knives. She stills the massive whetstone in her palm and looks down at him with a playful glint in her eye.

“If you’re looking for another stein of ale, you’ll have to wait. The stock’s completely drained.” She turns her attention back to the knife in her hand and whets the steel with steady strokes. “It’s been many moons since I’ve seen that happen,” she turns the blade inspecting her work. “You would make a decent skaald.”

Vega pays the remark no mind, instead setting his eyes on the moa carcass. At some point it had been moved, wheeled to a more vacant area of the lodge. Droplets of water ooze out of small gaps in the wagon, the body has thawed completely leaving the corpse as fresh as when it was slain. The workers sweep the floor diligently, collecting the black feathers scattered around it. Though the moa had been plucked bare, the skin underneath was just as dark.

The barkeep walks past him towards the wagon, carrying the knives securely on a belt around her hips. She unclasps the corners of the wagon bed, laying its walls flat to get better access to the body. Unsheathing a large, thin blade, she begins slicing through the thick hide by its thigh, peeling back the skin to reveal the taut, red flesh. She glides her fingers methodically over the meat, using a different knife she cuts away at connective tissues until the whole piece pulls free. After placing it into a nearby ice bucket, she meticulously repeats the process muscle by muscle. As he observes, his curiosity grows; he knows the Norn to be quick and efficient, preferring to package the meat as fast as possible, minimizing the risk of spoiling. He approaches her just as she scoops out a glob of cartilage. 

“You are being awfully careful with it.”

“I have to be. The man that issued the bounty was very specific.” 

He frowns at that.  
“You did not post the bounty?”

“Wouldn’t be smart of me to incite a moot at my own expense, would it?” She retorts with a shrug. 

Moving onto the skin at its breast, Vega notes astoundingly that the arrowheads he managed to shoot at it had barely pierced its leather, only the very tips peeked through and left nary a dent in the tender meat underneath. He inquires further. 

“What does he want?”

“He’s paying extra to keep the meat intact and he wants the bones unscathed so I have to go slow.” She waves at some of the workers to retrieve the buckets, quickly replacing them with new ice before continuing. “Then he wants us to put the skeleton back together. It’s all pretty bizarre but with the amount of gold, I can’t complain.” 

Before he could ask any further questions, a loud thud by the door catches their attention. They watch as a male Norn stumbles in covered in snow. He shakes off the snow vigorously, flinging it in a similar manner to how a dolyak would. His voice booms across the room to the dismay of several sobering patrons.

“Barkeep! I came as soon I got your message. Is he still here?” 

He stomps in, scanning the room until he spots the woman toiling away on the cart. His eyes widen when he spots the Sylvari standing next to her and charges towards them with fervent enthusiasm. Vega tenses, staring impassively at the tall figure grinning down at him. 

“Are you the hunter who collected my bounty?”

“I am.”

The Norn’s smile grows wider at his response.

“And are you the very same hunter that’s been claiming high profile bounties across the Shiverpeaks?”

Vega narrows his eyes.  
“And what if I was?”

“Then Wolf has finally put me on the right path! You’re a hard man to find.”  
He squares his broad shoulders and extends a brawny hand, placing the other on his hip. 

“My name is Fredrik and I’ve come with a proposition.”

He takes a moment to observe the man in front of him. He is shorter than most Norn that Vega has encountered but no less broad. The thin purple tunic wrapped around his slim figure (at least by Norn standards) is common among his ilk, white fur lines the edges cutting off at his forearms showing off the elaborate tattoos ending at his wrists. His auburn hair is shaved at the sides, the middle grown long and tied into a tight braid draping down his neck. Underneath the thick beard he can tell the man is fairly young, his amethyst eyes beam expectantly at him. Vega stands unmoving and his scowl only deepens.

“Not interested.”

“Come now, Vega! Don’t be that way! At least hear me out first.”

Most of the Norn have retired to their sleeping quarters, leaving just the workers, the unconscious patrons and themselves. Fredrik guides him towards an empty table away from prying ears. His hands clasp together loosely resting on his knees as he hunches forward in his seat. He divulges his plan in a low, hushed tone.

“As you may know, the whole Scarlet incident last year left no time to organise the Great Hunt. I understand how preoccupied Knut Whitebear was with all that but I refuse to stay untested any longer. I long for a hunt worthy to start my legend and I believe I’ve found it.”   
He furrows his brows, “There have been whispers of a fearsome creature skulking across Tyria, I hear it has even eaten people. I have been tracking it for a while now but everytime I think it’s within my grasp,” he makes a fist and stares hard at it before unclenching, “it slips away.” He sighs quietly to himself before raising his head and flashing Vega a grin. “That’s where you come in!” He points at him. “You will find the beast,” Then he waves a thumb at himself, “and I will slay it.” 

Vega stares sceptically at his grinning face. The Norn are solitary people, for one to ask for assistance while in pursuit of prey means it may be more trouble than it’s worth. 

“What am I to gain from helping you?”

“I can pay you handsomely, I’ll even cover travel expenses.”

“I am not interested in gold.”

Fredrik lets out an amused bark. “Ha! It would seem so. The barkeep sounded especially pleased with her earnings today in the letter.” He leans back on the seat, glancing over at the rapt woman elbow-deep in the carcass. He turns back to Vega, eyes bright and calculating. 

“But perhaps I can persuade you with this.” 

He ruffles through the pouch strapped by his hip and takes out a glass bottle filled with an amber, luminescent substance. He pours the thick liquid into two small wooden cups and hands one to Vega.   
“When I learned the hunter I was searching for was a Sylvari, I went looking in the Grove. The people in Starbower said this was extracted from the finest garden the tree had to offer.”

Vega takes the cup. He gazes into it vacantly but the twitch of his ears and brightening red glow gives his eagerness away. He takes a slow sip, letting the sap melt in his mouth. How long had it been since he tasted Nectar? The sweetness hits him through his core and it reminds him of a time when his mentor still called him Valiant. A time when his bow hand was not quite as steady and the days training under the Pale Tree’s warm canopy felt steadfast and resolute. He smiles fondly into his cup until Fredrik’s voice brings him back to the present. 

“That good huh? Too sweet for my tastes but they do say sugar helps with plant growth!” Vega watches the Norn pat himself for the joke and can’t help a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. Perhaps he will hear the man out, if only to pass the long night away. 

He returns the cup and smirks,  
“Say I do help you, what manner of beast would we be hunting?”

Fredrik’s smile seems to beam brighter as though he was a fisherman reeling in his catch with irresistible bait. He leans in close, his voice a low vibration,  
“Now that I can’t say.” He sits up and crosses his arms, “I have yet to see it for myself. The rumors say it’s an animal unknown to Tyria.” 

His words echo through Vega, he doesn’t catch the next few sentences Fredrik says— a thrumming resonates through him, his insides panging like the inside of a bell. The foliage on his head bristles as something within him stirs. His right hand twitches erratically but he quells the compulsion with a tight grasp. He knows this feeling. It compels him with every bounty he’s taken, every great beast he’s felled. But the feeling never lasts long and this time won’t be any different. And yet it calls to him like an itch he can’t quite scratch. So he cuts into Fredrik’s prattle with an urgency he did not expect from himself.

“Can you imagine? The first to defeat a dangerous, new—”

“Do you have a lead?”

Fredrik pauses, observing the Sylvari in front of him. His sharp, fiery eyes are focused and determined. He can tell Vega’s serious. He slides the bottle of nectar towards him and answers in earnest.  
“It was fortunate Wolf lead me to you when he did. I just caught whiff of some trouble at the Rana Landing Complex in Metrica Province.”

Vega contemplates the information and with a curt nod he picks up the bottle, taking his leave. There is much to prepare. He calls out to Fredrik,  
“We set out at sunrise.”

Fredrik let’s out a joyous woop, “This calls for celebration! Barkeep!” He yells for the woman. She stops to look at him expressionlessly. “Bring me a round of your stoutest ale!”

“Sorry, your friend there drank me out of house and home.” She responds dryly, continuing her work.

He sits there baffled, bursting into laughter moments later when he realises she wasn’t joking, clutching at his side and gawking at Vega’s disappearing form. 

“They did warn me your hunting skills were only matched by your love of tapping barrels!”

“Then you should have more Nectar to offer at the end of all this.” The Sylvari shouts over his shoulder and Fredrik laughs heartily into his empty cup.

Soon enough, the diminishing embers are put out completely and he too retires for the evening.

 

The sun breaks through the horizon the next morning, slowly basking the snowy expanse in a blinding white. Even at the break of dawn there is a flurry of noise; yelps from sleeping drunkards woken by children splashing buckets of water with mischievous glee, grunts from merchants unloading fresh shipments into the lodge, and furniture scraping the floor as workers prepare the hall for another day. 

Vega strides through the bustling crowd with a satchel of supplies in hand. The aged, hardened rosewood he’s acquired makes a sturdy set of shoulder guards and arm braces, the gear securely wrapped around his brown leather garments with red, braided knots. He’s added an additional belt to his hip carrying an assortment of throwing knives, the extra weight a small comfort until he can find a suitable replacement for his bow. The hooped hilts clink softly as he makes his way to the central, unlit fire pit. The ashes have been swept clean but it’s the exhibit looming behind it that catches his eye.

Standing formidably by the back wall is the Beak of Darkness; its towering skeleton is polished gleaming with preservative oils. The neck is bent allowing it’s harrowing, bottomless eye sockets to stare down while also showcasing the two puncture wounds through its skull that spelled its demise. Vega observes as the barkeep, standing precariously on a ladder, puts together the remaining bones on its flared out wing. He feels a heavy weight pat his shoulder and turns his head to find Fredrik smiling down at him. He moves past Vega to inspect the woman’s handiwork, giving the bones a slight tap with his knuckles. Strapped to the Norn’s back is a traditional greatsword; the blade is wide and reaches down to his calf, cultural markings are etched into the spine and wrapped with leathers and furs. After some approving nods Fredrik turns back to Vega with a proud grin. 

“As expected, it makes an excellent centrepiece.” 

He looks up at the Norn and lets out an amused huff, “Is that really all you wanted it for? To display someone else’s trophy?”

“Finding you was the prelude to my epic journey. Every story needs a good build up.” He answers, making his way towards the door, “And besides, I put up the bounty so it sort of counts as mine.”

Vega follows beside him, brow furrowing disbelievingly at the childish remark. Once they step foot outside, Fredrik unwraps a chunk of moa meat and rips into the juicy flesh with a satisfying bite. Ever curious, Vega asks him about the other condition set in his bounty. He looks down at the Sylvari and shrugs nonchalant. 

“There wasn’t much significance to it.” he replies with a mouthful. “This is just how I like my meat.” 

A moment of silence passes until Vega looks at him dead-panned.   
“Did I mention I shot the moa with poison arrows?”

“Son of a Svanir!”  
He quickly spits out the piece and a faint laugh escapes Vega’s lips. 

As the sun rises and the sky clears, they descend from Podaga Steading and set out to Metrica Province.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody's curious, Vega's wearing Strider's Armour and Fredrik's wearing the Common Clothing Outfit.
> 
> Next chapter should be in a week or so depending on how life goes.  
> Tell me if you liked it or not in the comments!  
> Or just come down for a chat, I'd love to hear from you :)


	2. Tracking the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right on schedule~~  
> I hope you're into walking because we'll be doing a lot of that.  
> "But Lamshire," you say, "waypoints are a canonical thing-"  
> SHhh, Shhh, shhh...none of that.  
> A tracker needs to track! And maybe you'll recognise some things along the way, hey?
> 
> Enjoy <3

_Draw. Hold. Release._

_The arrow soars, hitting the practice target with a dull thud. He picks up another._

_Draw. Hold. Release._

_The target topples over. His right arm trembles as the draw weight wears him down._

_Draw. Hold. Release._

_“What is the point of this exercise? You know I am ready.” He calls to the woman standing idle to the side. She chuckles softly, swaying her swept-back leaves._

_“I know the call to act is strong, young Valiant, but you must be patient,” her voice is light like a flutter in the breeze, “there is more to archery than simply aiming a bow and there is more to you than just your mission.“_

_He relaxes his stance and stares at her, “What else is there?”_

_“Go see what the world has to offer— it’s done wonders for me.” She places a gentle hand on his shoulder and offers an earnest smile._

 

“My path has lead me into Asuran territory. Rumor has it the creature has been harassing researchers in Metrica Province…”

The words snap Vega out of his thoughts. They had been traveling in relative silence until now. He turns his attention to Fredrik; he’s holding a well-worn leather book in one hand, scribbling down notes in the other, occasionally pausing to bite the end of his pen and mumble to himself.

“...and who better to identify this mysterious beast than the Asura? Surely what they lack in height, they make up for in extensive knowledge. Yes, that sounds good…”

After a couple of minutes of ‘No, no that’s not right’ and ‘What’s that word?’ Vega breaks through the rambling in a patient tone.  
“What are you doing?” 

As if he just noticed the Sylvari walking with him, Fredrik jolts and whips his head around to face him. He closes the book, waving it by his head, “Oh this? I’ve been writing a journal.” He lifts his chin, “The most important part of any great hunt is to keep a proper record. That way you’ll know what you can boast about later!” He finishes with a grin, flourishing the book at Vega who raises a brow. 

“The most important part of any great boast is the success of the kill. No one will sit through the intricacies of your documentation. Unless you plan to write down every move you make during the battle, your effort is wasted.”

The Norn waves off his comment, “Bah! You could just hold all that in your head, but you might forget some special detail. I still recommend you write it all down in a journal.” He rummages through his pouch excitedly and hands Vega a new leather tome, “Take one! I’ve made plenty for the road.”

Reluctantly, Vega stashes the book wondering just how many the man decided to bring with him.  
“Right. And is there anything in that journal of yours that is of use to us now?”

Fredrik ponders the question awhile before flipping through the pages.   
“I’ve mapped out locations where I believe it’s struck. Seems to me it’s on the move— never stops in one place for long.”   
He opens up a two page spread showing it to Vega. It is littered with lines haphazardly criss-crossing one another in an indecipherable pattern on top of a crude rendition of the Tyrian map. Concluding that the only person who could possibly read this map is the man himself, Vega nods along skeptically and lets Fredrik continue.  
“It’s been known to strike in the dead of night, not many have seen it up close and the ones who do, come back in a body bag.”

Vega let’s it all sink in, falling into a contemplative silence as they walk. He is unaccustomed to being this uninformed. The bounties he had claimed so far had all been notorious beasts with known attributes and behaviours he could glean off local hunters or civilians. There was time to scout locations, or set up traps. This time there would be no such luxury and his right hand twitches slightly at the thought.

 

Passing through the Voloxian Passage they arrive at the Rana Landing Complex. It is a flat, grassy terrain sprinkled with various testing equipment surrounding the large Brill Alliance Laboratory. Its cubic architecture and floating leyline-infused stones are typical of Asuran design, the two-storey facility housing a research krewe inside. Skritt run around just outside the lab curiously prodding the machines as the Asurans there observe them from afar. 

They spot one researcher making her rounds to each monitor planted on the field. Her orange hair is tied into two round buns fraying out of place from her frantic, nervous scratching. Fredrik walks up to her, greeting the figgety woman with a friendly smile.

“Hello, small friend! We— “

“Sorry, no time to chat! We’re already so behind on everything!” She jogs briskly to the next contraption, her blue eyes scan the screen lightening fast, “Actually, we could use your help with our test subjects. If you could just talk to them and use your intellect to confuse them, it would speed things up real quick!” 

Before she makes her way towards the next machine, Vega steps into her path and pins her with a stern gaze. 

“We did not come here for that. We heard you were having some trouble with a beast.” He tells her evenly. The look of relief on her face is palpable, her long ears flop down as she sighs.

“Thank the Eternal Alchemy! I’m so glad you’re here. There are two of them. They’re huge, and they have no respect for science!”

Her outburst startles both men and they give each other perplexed looks.

“They’ve been tearing into the supplies and terrifying the subjects! That’s why we can’t get anything done!” She explains, pacing back and forth anxiously.

“Two? Where did you last see them?” Vega inquires. The Asura seems even more distressed than before and squints indignantly at him.

“All over the place! And at night! How do you expect me to keep track of something like that?” She erupts, clutching shakily at her small face, looking ready to fall over from the strain. 

Fredrik kneels down and places both hands on her shoulders, effectively encompassing most of her shaking form. He gives her a gentle look, “Calm down, small friend, deep breaths.” He inhales slowly waiting for her to copy, “Any information would help.” He placates, calming her after a few breaths.

“Okay.” She composes herself, “There are a number of monitors around here—you may have noticed them. Maybe they saw something. You’ll need permission to access them, just go to the lab and tell them Hrappa sent you.”   
Fredrik lets go of her and they share a smile before she scampers away to the next device.

Once they gain access, they split off and start investigating the monitors. After the tenth monitor, Vega lets out a frustrated sigh. So far the machines have been either broken or tampered with by the local Skritt, nothing that would indicate where the beasts have gone or even what they look like. As he looks over to check on Fredrik’s progress he spots the man sauntering over to a jittery Skritt with a wicked glint in his eye. 

“You there, rodent friend!” He bellows causing the Skritt to leap off the ground with a yelp, “Can you tell me how many ounces are in a pint of ale?”

The Skritt looks up at him wide-eyed, twitching its furry head trying to form a response, “Oh, uh, yes. I mean, no. No! I mean, fifteen.”

“Close. How many ounces are in a Norn pint of ale?”

“Herp, daah. Hnff, erk...thirty!”

“Not quite. Now imagine a mug of ale. Is it half empty or half full?”

“Ahhhh! No more, no more!”

Vega stares pointedly at Fredrik as he approaches snickering at the wailing Skritt in the distance.

“That went well.” He remarks dryly, turning his attention back to the monitor.

“Why, yes! Who knew the sciences could be so amusing?” Fredrik concurs, taking out his journal to note down his discovery. 

“While you were busy entertaining yourself, did you find anything useful?”

“Nothing on my side. Although I do know what the inside of a Skritt mouth looks like, one of them thought the camera was edible.”

Ignoring his comment, Vega heads to the final monitor and pulls up the night surveillance file on screen. The grainy, green-tinted filter makes it hard to see much of anything. The footage shows nothing of interest, only the occasional insect zipping by in the darkness until suddenly, two bright orbs stalk across the field. The jolt of adrenaline that shoots through his right arm tells him this must be the beast they are after. He quickly pauses the video, eyes focused on the creature. The image is blurry but he can make out certain parts of its form.

Fredrik lets out a small gasp, “Wolf’s teeth! Look at the size of it!”

It walks on all fours, large, round eyes reflecting the moonlight. Judging by the full-grown Skritt limp within its massive jaws, it’s impossibly bigger than any of the wild jaguars native to this area. Its body is much wider, the neckline thick and weighty supporting its broad, short head. But its most distinctive features are the dark, vertical markings covering the entirety of its fur coat. It isn’t like any animal he’s seen before. He lets the file play out, watching until its long, striped tail disappears from view before shutting off the monitor. Vega looks over his shoulder at the Norn avidly scribbling into his book. 

“Evidence indicates at least one of them was headed east.”

“Then that’s our best lead. Can you track it?”

Vega scoffs. _Was that not what you hired me to do?_ He moves in front of the equipment, combing through the grass where the creature had stalked off to with a critical eye. He kneels down when he spots a shallow imprint in the dirt. Pressing a finger into the paw-print, he feels the compression in the soil. He surmises that the animal came through days ago. Fredrik follows suit, marvelling at the large tear-shaped print, bigger than his own hand. Following the line of travel from the base of its heel to the pitch bisecting its claws, Vega pinpoints the next visible track a short distance away. 

They continue on the trail leading from the grassy plains into the dense forest of Akk Wilds. The tracks become cold, the dirt disturbed by the hustle and bustle of the nearby ooze experiment encampment. Vega checks the ground for scratches or holes made from its claws, scouring the area while keeping low almost to a crawl to the bewilderment of the krewe studying oozes inside the camp. Fredrik greets the curious Asurans and tries to obtain any information about the beast. He gets an earful from who he presumes is the head researcher, squawking about how he didn’t publish several dissertations to not be addressed as doctor (he politely removes himself before the good doctor sics an ooze on him). From what he could gather, unlike the Brill Alliance Lab, the animals have left this base alone. The krewe weren’t able to provide much more than that so Fredrik catches up to the Sylvari at the edge of the encampment.

Tilting his head to the side, Vega scans the forest floor. Some leaves are pressed down leaving an outline beneath the leaves in the soil. The leaves spring back up but not all the way leaving a depression that indicates something large and heavy passed through. They pick up the trail once more.

As the trees become more abundant, he takes note of the unnatural polish on the trunks creating an unintentional pathway towards a hill. The hill is enclosed by a wall of rocks with a small pond close by. When they reach the top they find signs of a nest; straw and sticks are left scattered around, and the sparse, skeletal remains of a large rodent are picked clean and abandoned. Fredrik picks up the crushed Skritt skull between his fingers.

“Do you think this is where they live?”

Vega shakes his head. “No, there was only one set of prints and there is not enough here to suggest they use this area frequently.” 

Fredrik slumps his shoulders. “Then we are at a literal dead end.” He waves an arm at the towering cliffside circling the hillside. 

Vega runs a hand through his foliage. He’s already checked for tracks but the trail ends here, there is nothing left to follow. Walking around the nest, he tries to find any indication of where the animal might’ve gone. If the beast truly was as big as the camera showed, it would be difficult to exit this area without a trace. He examines the walls surrounding them; the rocks are stacked high, the gaps between each protruding segment so grand it seems impossible to scale. _Unless…_

“Perhaps not,” he calls to Fredrik.   
On the back wall just in front of the nest, there are small grooves smattering the smooth cliffside and upon closer inspection he can see the claw marks engraved further up, “the markings lead over this cliff. It must have gone into Caledon Forest.”

“What a crafty beast!” Fredrik laughs, “Shall we give chase? I could throw you over and you could hoist me up!” he takes a pitching pose smiling enthusiastically as he demonstrates the motion. 

“A tempting offer,” Vega rolls his eyes, “but these formations are vast. We should take passage around and pick up the trail once we reach Caledon.”

Fredrik takes one last look at the precariously tall cliffside and nods.  
“Lead the way.”

 

The passage from Metrica Province runs through an opening in the cliffside, revealing the lush greenery that is Caledon Forest. It is teeming with plant life, growing wild amongst the trees in all shapes and sizes. Contrary to its name, there is rarely an area left uninhabited; many Sylvari have taken to living here, growing village structures out of the vines and flowers, there are defensible outposts erected by vigilant Lionguards and the more shrouded territories are home to the Nightmare Court. Surely with this many people, at least one of them must have seen the beast. 

They walk along the path southeast, cutting through the dilapidated Ruins of the Unseen. What was once a White Mantle temple now lays in disarray, its broken, moss-filled structures flooded with Skritt. The area is patrolled by golems and a lone Asuran tinkering in a small research base she’s established in the centre of the ruins. Seeing the familiar set-up, Fredrik saunters to a nearby Skritt ransacking a pile of gears, ready to give it an intellectual whooping. Before he can get a word in, the Skritt lets out an ear-splitting screech, calling upon the wrath of several of its kin who nip and scratch at wherever they can reach him. With a surprised yelp Fredrik rolls on the ground, shaking off the rodents and breaking into a sprint around the temple. The Asuran (who later introduces herself as Zippti) follows the Norn eagerly tapping at her tablet. She thanks them for their contribution to her study of the hyper-aggressive Skritt inhabiting the area and sends them on their way no closer to finding the elusive beast. 

Fredrik brushes the dirt off his shoulders, wittingly not looking at the Sylvari by his side. “Those rodents are as ferocious as Bear! Must be why the beast avoided this place.” He says in a huff and Vega nods agreeably as they continue south into Mabon Market.

Entrenched beneath the mighty roots of an age-old tree, the markets are alight with various colours and scents; pale pink lilies bloom all around, giant red and blue flower buds unfurl decorating the tops with sweet-smelling, luminescent spores that mix with the various spices, oils and fabrics at each stall. The artisan stations are all constructed with twining branches and vines; craftsman of every discipline display their wares proudly, bartering with travellers seeking to resupply their stocks.

Fredrik’s eyes sparkle with delight at the array of goods and he makes straight for the strings of meat lined atop the chef’s stand. Vega watches the Norn lumber off into the markets with a bemused look. Avoiding the crowds, he walks along the edges interviewing the wardens and scouts. As expected, they had little to offer. He finds a mushroom stalk serving as a table on the outskirts of the marketplace to lean on as he gathers his thoughts. It is clear the creature is staying away from areas with high activity—they should investigate less populated locations. The northern swamplands are riddled with hostile Hylek and Ettins, the logical conclusion is that it must have headed somewhere south. Vega looks over to the long stretch of cliffs leading through Titan’s Staircase and makes note to check higher ground for any signs of the beast. 

In his musing a sea green Sylvari shuffles closer to his table. Her thorny hairs are clipped short and she looks up at him with anxious, yellow eyes. From her barely grown, purple leaf attire he surmises she must have awakened from her pod fairly recently. 

“All of the foreign travelers visiting make me so nervous, brother.” She speaks softly, “What must they think of us? I can’t help but think we’re unwelcome.”

Vega frowns, turning over to the crowd; the atmosphere is nothing short of jovial amongst the craftsman and travelling customers. He watches Fredrik laugh with a pale green Sylvari over sticks of dolyak meat and finds that the sapling’s worries are sorely unfounded. Her distress comes through the empathic bond all Sylvari share like an irritable buzzing at the back of his head and Vega is reminded why he’s avoided his homelands for so long. Newborns let their emotions out raw, clinging to the Dream’s connection like a lifesaving buoy in the turbulent sea and their concept of personal space leaves a lot to be desired. It’s a vulnerability he refuses to acknowledge. He doesn’t meet her gaze and stands stoic waiting the woman to leave him be. 

Suddenly an explosion booms at the very base of the tree roots. In her shock the sapling latches onto his arm to his chagrin. All attention is drawn to the smouldering remains of an Asura gate with a plethora of miniature animals stampeding across the market. The vendors and residents alike let out groans as an Asuran rushes out demanding his experiments be returned posthaste. The krewe frantically scoop up as may as they can carry and soon the market goers help as well. Fredrik eyes a tiny dolyak scampering away from the market and chases after it with a gleeful bounce in his step. It bounds towards Vega who throws down a knife to stop it in its tracks. It rears up, giving Fredrik the opportunity to bop it on the head revealing the dazed ooze with a poof. 

Picking it up with one huge palm, Fredrik gives Vega a winning smile,  
“Good save, friend! And who’s this lovely lady with you?”

Under his towering Norn height the sea green Sylvari’s hold tightens, crying with a shrill voice,   
“Come to gawk at the young people of the Grove? This world has belonged to you and your kind for so long. We must be as unwelcome as the encroaching monsters!”

Stunned by her reaction, Fredrik gives the woman a puzzled look,  
“No, not at all.” He tosses the ooze to a nearby krewe member before turning back to her, “Why would you think that?”

She lowers her head, “We haven't established ourselves yet. We've started, but we still don't belong quite the way you do. The world is so big, and we are such a small part of it.”

The Norn kneels down to her eye level, “Look around,” he gestures towards the market, “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

She looks on at the foreign travellers working with the Sylvari residents to corral the miniature animals and the camaraderie brings a small smile to her face. The sapling releases her grip on Vega’s arm and thanks them both with a nod before joining the others. 

Fredrik leans down next to Vega, the mushroom stalk creeks with the added weight, and wolfs down a stick of dolyak meat,  
“Nice lady. Did you catch her name?” He asks with a mouthful.

Vega shakes his head and Fredrik chortles, patting him supportively on the back, “Better luck next time, friend.” He dangles a stick of dolyak meat in front of the Sylvari’s face, “Eat away the pain! I have been informed dolyak meat can be enjoyed by all races and that calling you a ‘crop’ is considered rude.” He waves enthusiastically at the chef (a mint green woman wearing a white head-wrap waves back from behind one of the stalls). 

Vega glowers at the implication but takes the offering anyway.  
“I thought you had a sack full of moa meat?” He questions. 

Fredrik circles his wrist, waving the sticks indulgently, “Those are provisions! This is food.”

Not quite understanding the Norn’s reasoning, he shrugs and takes a bite of the juicy skewered meat. 

They eat in comfortable silence until Fredrik speaks,  
“What did that woman mean by not being established? When I visited the Grove it was a grand, magnificent city.” 

“She means as a race we are fairly new. The Grove has only existed for twenty-five years.” 

Fredrik raises his brows, “That’s only a few years older than me! Wait— “ he squints down at the Sylvari, “how old does that make you?”

“Seven.” Vega responds, watching as the Norn’s eyes grow comically wide.

“Wolf’s teeth! You’re a child!” Fredrik bursts into raucous laughter.

“I was never a child.” Vega lours, “We emerge from our pods fully-grown. Even that woman you just met was only a few days old at most.” He straightens from the table and starts heading towards the eastern side of the market with the Norn following at his heels. 

“Incredible! I don't even remember the things I did at your age.” Fredrik holds a palm to his head giggling, “I think my boots are older than you!”

“What does age matter?” Vega whirls around glaring up at the taller man, “Look at what the Pact Commander has accomplished in the two years she has lived!” The outburst surprises them both and Vega lets out a deep, forlorn sigh. 

Fredrik slowly reaches an arm out, placing it on his shoulder with an apologetic smile. “I meant no offense, Vega.“

“Think nothing of it.” He replies shrugging off the man’s massive hand,  
“I will check the cliffside for signs. You talk to the other travellers and see if you can gain anything of use.” He turns around and walks apace, disappearing into the crowd.

 

They convene at the edge of Ventry Bay where a long bridge stretches across the waters to the towering, impenetrable walls that shield the enigmatic Tengu city. They take a moment to stare at the grand structure. The Tengu are a secretive people, not once have they allowed outsiders into the Dominion of Winds, one can only imagine what lies beyond those walls. 

Fredrik scratches his head frustrated, “I can't believe no one knew what I was talking about.” Vega shares his expression; he could not find any clues along the rocky formation either. 

“I even presented them with a very accurate depiction of it!” He flashes the book in front of Vega. The Sylvari scowls at the sketch, calling it...anatomically incorrect would be putting it lightly and he feels a pang of sympathy for the people that had to make sense of it.   
Before he could comment on the drawing he feels a sharp jolt that bristles the ends of his leaves. They are being watched.

The bark of his arms stand on end, his fingers cautiously hook onto the looped hilt of a knife as he pinpoints the source. His right ear picks up the sound before his eyes can see the arrow launched at him. With a twist he narrowly dodges the shot, deflecting the next with a swing of his blade. Watching the trajectory of the next flurry he rolls away, vanishing in stealth. He bends, keeping his legs in a tight coil and launches from the ground, going at full tilt across the bridge.

Fredrik unfastens the greatsword on his back and charges in after him. The volley of arrows that rain down on him halt his progress, having to use his weapon as a makeshift shield. He tries to break from the defensive position but the volley doesn't let up and pins him in place.

Vega makes it halfway before the wet squelching moss matted on the pavement gives away his position. The archer is relentless, releasing arrow after arrow in such quick succession Vega just barely dodges the onslaught despite being invisible. He doesn’t have long until the stealth wears off. Time to change tactics.

Vega unclasps a pouch by his side and hurls a handful of smoke pellets at the assailant. Most are skillfully shot out of the air but enough land by the archers feet to billow thick, dark smog. The smoke proves effective, the arrows cease for a brief moment and Vega takes the opportunity to close the gap. Suddenly the archer leaps high and spins creating a gust of wind that disperses the smoke, stopping mid-air to aim the bow at the unstealthed Sylvari.   
Vega’s lip stretch into an almost manic grin. _Everything falls into place._ He anticipates the shot, catching the arrow in one hand and flinging a row of knives with the other, waiting for the figure to block the attack with their bow and let gravity take hold. Before the archer can land Vega slides underneath, latching onto a leg and twists, pulling the body down hard enough to disorient, loosening their grip on their weapon. Swinging with the momentum he spins around using his grip on their leg like a pole and kicks the bow out of their hand. He leaps off and with his arm outstretched catches the bow and draws the arrow at the person lying flat on the floor. 

Fredrik catches up not long after. Vega throws him a side glance.  
“Your support was most helpful.” He drawls, the sarcasm rolling off his tongue. 

Fredrik looks to the side a little sheepish.   
“You were cloaked the whole time!” He responds, “It would be unfortunate to accidentally cleave you in half with my sword.” In truth the battle was so fast he could do nothing except watch entranced but he won’t ever admit that so Fredrik just chuckles lightly rubbing the back of his neck.

A deep, rumbling laughter erupts from the figure below. The smoke has cleared completely, revealing the man to be a Tengu. His avian humanoid body is slim and partially hunched. The tunic he has wrapped around his white, feathered, upper torso is a soft, light blue accented with deep blue symbols and a pale satin belt around his waist. He looks up at Vega with mirthful eyes.

“It would seem your skills have not dulled after all these years, Valiant.”

Recognition slowly sets in and Vega lowers the bow, extending his hand to the fallen Tengu.  
“Or perhaps the years have just not been as kind to you, Master Swift Arrow.” 

“Please,” the man squawks as he gets up, “I was merely stretching my wings.”   
He dusts himself and turns to Fredrik.  
“I meant only to test an old student, but I will admit keeping you at bay was a challenge in and of itself, young warrior. Had my attention not been so split the outcome might have been quite different.”

“Call me Fredrik,” He grasps the Tengu’s hand shaking it amicably, “I hope to challenge you fair and square sometime. Your archery skills are incredible! How did you manage to shoot so many?”

“I am Swift Arrow, gatekeeper to the Dominion of Winds.” He declares with a bow, “I will await for the day I face your blade with anticipation. I can only teach through battle and you can only learn through victory.” Vega feels a swell of fondness at his old teacher’s words but schools his features as he hands the bow back to him. “To answer your question— ” Swift Arrow replies, taking the weapon, “Enchanted bow.” With a wave of his hand the arrows littered on the bridge turn to dust and scatter in the wind. “Infinite arrows.”

Fredrik looks back and forth between the Tengu and the bridge in astonishment. “Wolf’s teeth, that’s ingenious!” He howls with excitement. 

The plumes on Swift Arrow’s chest puff up in amusement.  
“I’m glad you made a friend along your travels.” He smiles at Vega.

“Not a friend. A client.” He retorts, “We are looking for a large feline beast.”

“There are many great cats that dwell in Caledon.”

“This one is larger than any jaguar or jungle stalker. It is unique—the pattern on its coat is one I have not seen before.”

“It looks like this.” Fredrik interjects, showing Swift Arrow the drawing of the animal in his journal. The Tengu stares at the book for a moment before shifting his gaze towards Vega as if to confirm that the animal did indeed resemble the drawing at least to some capacity. His Sylvari pupil nods with slight hesitation and he turns back to ponder over the image with a clawed hand perched under his chin tapping at his sloped beak. 

“I have not seen it.” He shakes his head. “The local Hylek may know more, I find them most observant.” He gestures towards the beach across the bay. “There is a village just south of here, the Zopatl tribe are a friendly sort. I’m sure they would be happy to assist you.”

“Then we better head there before we lose more daylight.” Fredrik replies with a curt bow. “May the Spirits watch over you, Swift Arrow.”

“Until we meet again.” The Tengu mirrors the gesture. “Act with honour and speak with integrity.” 

They exchange goodbyes and make their way across the bridge. Swift Arrow watches their backs retreating in the distance. “And Valiant— “ He calls out, breaking their stride. “Do check in with Aife, you know how she worries.” His beak curling into a smile as he waves them off.

Vega sets a brisk pace as they reach the dirt path winding around the bay. Fredrik walks abreast, a curious twinkle in his eye. “So,” he starts with giddish delight, “who was he talking about, this ‘Aife’ ?” He waits for Vega to respond but the Sylvari stays quiet. As they head further west through the Mabon Market his intrigue spikes again. “A sibling?” No response. “A friend? A lover?” 

“Stay focused.” Vega chides, his steps quicken ever so slightly and they move towards the Zopatl Grounds.


	3. Into the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gone a little keyboard crazy, bear with me LOL  
> I swear it wasn't meant to be this long but I couldn't help it, I'm a sucker for action.
> 
> Please enjoy this over-dramatisation of a level 10 heart <3

Passing through Sandycove Beach, they reach the Zopatl Grounds established in a secluded corner at the edge of Glencarn Sperrins. It is a small settlement fenced by thick, wood stumps and matted with straws and fibres used to construct the roofs on their huts. The outside is decorated with shields and spears, tiles coloured with shades of green, red, blue and yellow adorn the tops in a brilliant display. There is one opening by the hillside and another by the shoreline and as Vega and Fredrik approach they witness what seems to be the middle of a raid.

Huts inside are set ablaze, driving the green amphibian inhabitants out of their homes and into the clutches of the Krait. The armoured Hylek are spread thin, hacking at their serpent-like oppressors as best they can but the Krait’s numbers are too great and with each one they slay, another slithers back into the sea dragging screaming villagers with them down into the depths.

A disarmed Hylek crashes into the shore face, back-pedalling frantically from the encroaching Krait. The serpent has her cornered. He heaves up—long spine rearing back as he steadies the spear in his hands for the final blow. The Hylek clenches her eyes shut waiting for the weapon to strike her down. The blow never comes; instead she hears the serpent wail in agony on top of her and her eyes widen at the dagger embedded in the Krait’s eye socket. Suddenly a shadow blinks behind the Krait grasping the blade and ripping it from the serpentine skull. Blood slides off the knife with a swish, splattering it on the Hylek below. The corpse hits the ground splashing, its long tail coils limp on top of the Hylek. She lays there stunned, mouth agape as the leather-clad Sylvari moves onto another Krait.

Screams rip through the air to her right, she watches in horror as three Krait drag more villagers offshore. The Hylek scrambles to stand until she feels a rumbling ripple through the puddles, growing more and more thunderous by the second. Like an impending earthquake a Norn barrels into the fray. His mighty greatsword slices through the row of Krait as though they were made of butter, lopping their upper torsos clean off. The Hylek feels the power of that single swing like a gale sweeping across the coast and it makes her thankful for the height difference (she is absolutely sure the Hylek would not have slowed the blade in the slightest and the thought sends chills down his spine). The villagers retreat to safety and the Norn strides over to her shaken form. She feels an unexpected tug as her entire body is lifted from the sand and realises the outsider is helping her stand.

“Can you still fight?” The Norn asks, staring down at her with bright, amethyst eyes. Left speechless, the Hylek musters a nod. Satisfied with her response the Norn flashes a wild grin and grabs the Krait corpse by her side with one hand. “Good!” He bellows, hurling the body metres away into a group of Krait. The Sylvari makes short work of the tangled serpents, stabbing into their writhing necks with lightning-fast precision. The Hylek stares in awe at the two heroes then grabs a spear and joins them with a renewed sense of hope.

It doesn’t take long for their numbers to even out, Krait bodies hit the floor en masse and soon enough the few surviving invaders make a hasty retreat back into the bay. But there are no cheers. No joyful croaking for their success. The villagers put out the fires quietly, warriors carry the injured back and the krait bodies are dragged away to be burned discreetly. It feels entirely mundane, its inhabitants resigned and tired. The Hylek finally puts down the spear and watches the two strangers from afar.

Vega wipes the blood off his daggers on his pants, the rest of his ensemble remains relatively unscathed. He looks up at Fredrik’s blood smeared face as the Norn tries to rub the gore off his person only to have it smudge even more.  
“You know,” he spits out a bit of Krait flesh stuck between his teeth, vaguely remembering he ripped a chunk out of one’s shoulder in his frenzy, “even though you cheated with that teleport I still think I killed more than you did.” Vega remains silent. The number of bodies with stab wounds would beg to differ. He watches as a lone Hylek approaches them.

“You fight well, outsiders.” The frogwoman accolades, “I am Atzintli, chieftain of the Zopatl. The tides are turned in our favor now, and for that I thank you.”

“I wish we could have met in more peaceful times! My name’s Fredrik,” the Norn slaps the side of his head to dislodge the gunk stuck in his braid. A glob lands with a wet splat onto Vega’s shoulder who glances at him incredulously. He slaps the smaller man on the back, “and this is Vega.”

“I welcome you to the village all the same,” Atzintli’s expression grows solemn, “but the battle isn’t over. There will be another attack soon. To the Krait, we're nothing more than slaves not yet captured or killed. I've sworn to fight them to my last breath, but there are too few of us to keep up the fight. We need help if we're to survive.”

“Of course, we will help you in any way we can.” Fredrik asserts, looking at his partner for confirmation. Vega fixes his gaze at the remaining Hylek gathered in front of the village. Indeed, their numbers are diminutive—he can count them on his fingers. Their eyes are dark and sunken from fatigue, seemingly on the verge of giving up completely. The Zopatl are in no condition to help themselves much less two strangers. 

Vega acquiesces with a nod, a spark of hope gleams through their eyes. He turns to Atzintli. “Do you know why the Krait are attacking your grounds?”

“There is a witch!” One of the Hylek villagers croaks. The bottles of brightly coloured elixirs jingle on her leathery alchemist apron as she makes her way to the front of the crowd. She is much smaller and a paler green than her peers. “She dwells inside Stormwreck Deeps, commanding her underlings to take us for her curiosities. She tortures us, experiments with us…” The female Hylek turns around revealing the long garish scar that runs down her spine, “I barely made it out alive.”

“It was Sun’s fortune that Patli was able to return to us.” Atzintli nods, her eyes downcast, “But the Sun God has not shined upon us as of late. Each passing day more and more of us are taken.”

“I beg you,” Patli looks up at teary-eyed, “release our lost tribesmen, especially our young Conetl. Without them, we will be nothing. I don't want to think about what they may be enduring even now.”

Vega stares out into the bay; the waters are deceptively calm, the sky touching the sea line in picturesque serenity marred only by the dark, decrepit rusting towers that housed the Krait. He turns back to the villagers resolute. “I need one of you to come with me to free your people.”

Just as the pale green Hylek steps forward to volunteer, she is stopped by a webbed hand. One of the Hylek in bronze armour intervenes, “No, Patli. You don’t have to return to that monster.” he marches over to Vega, “I, Necalli, will go with you, outsider.”

“When will the next assault be?” He inquires.

“I predict in a matter of hours. They’ve been getting more relentless every day.” Atzintli answers, staring cautiously at the shore.

They won’t get a better window of opportunity than now. Vega rummages through his pouch, finding the aquabreather and handing his bag to Fredrik.  
“Give us as much time as you can. The Krait are a proud, contemptuous lot—if you kill enough of them I’m sure the witch will come out of hiding as well.”

“Leave it to me.” Fredrik declares, watching as Vega clips on the breather and descends into the depths with Necalli close behind. He surveys the wide expanse of sand and the small cluster of Hylek waiting anxiously by the shore. “So,” he peers down at the chieftain, “what do we have to work with here?”

Atzintli looks despondent, “I’m afraid many of our warriors were lost in previous battles. The only Cuintli left are myself and three others. One of which has gone with your friend.”

The thickening tension in the air is palpable as the gravity of their predicament weighs heavy on the Zopatl people. But Fredrik is undeterred, in fact the feeling exhilarates him as he looks between the village and its inhabitants. He puts a hand by his hip and jostles the bag in the other with a devilish grin.

“I have an idea.”

 

 

The hours are spent in tense silence hiding beneath a colony of coral growing beside the underwater derrick that is Stormwreck Deeps. Elongated beams dig into the seabed supporting the wooden floorboards that make up the various levels of the Krait homebase. The lower layers are packed with metal cages, some left chained to the ceiling, others situated on the floor but all are occupied by Hylek. Watching his brethren lifeless inside the cells puts Necalli on edge, the urge to take action swells deep within him but is stifled by the statuesque Sylvari floating cheek by jowl beside him. They’ve already discussed the strategy, all that’s left is when to execute it. The wait is almost unbearable but he will follow the outsider’s lead.

Vega observes the Krait slithering around the Deep. He can see three types: the Nimross are thin and streamlined specialising in long range attacks with spears and nets, the Hypnoss are unpredictable magic users concealing their faces behind hooded cloaks and the Damoss are large and muscular utilising their brawn to wield hefty broadswords. When he fought the Krait on land the distinction was insignificant, his speed overpowered any attempt at combat they could muster but here in darkening waters Vega has to play it safe. His drenched, leather gear weighs heavy on his person and he feels the drag with every motion. They will have to go slow. His blades will be ineffective against the Krait’s natural underwater prowess but with any luck he will only have to catch one by surprise—the keymaster.  
He knows the Krait to be arrogant; they believe themselves superior and cannot conceive that anyone would dare enter their domain much less be capable of such a feat and in their hubris they have left the lower levels relatively unguarded. Once he obtains the key, releasing the prisoners should be child’s play. He has only to identify the target.

Vega watches the first raid party depart from the Deep and head to the Zopatl Grounds. He and Necalli remain perfectly still, waiting for Fredrik to hold his end of the plan.

 

 

The Krait breach the water in rapid numbers, beads of saltwater drip off their scales as they hoist their humanoid torsos upright. They hone in on the Zopatl village, slithering through the entrance gracefully silent. The Krait raid leader throws a hand up, halting the rest in confusion. Something is amiss. They search the huts and baskets but there is nothing, nary a Hylek in sight.

“They must have fled into the forest,” the raid leader muses, “a futile effort.” He signals the others to circle to the outside.

Just as they turn, they hear the soft clacking of something small landing behind them. Suddenly an explosion of smoke clouds the surrounding air, its grey thickness making it hard to see anything. Then all the raid leader can hear are the screams of his party and a limp arm drops with a thud into his view. He swivels around trying to pinpoint the cause of the chaos through the smoke to no avail. With a frustrated screech, he calls for a retreat and heads to the exit. Before he can make it through the opening a sharp pain holds him in place, he looks back bewildered at the long spear impaled in his tail. The spear is pulled backed, ripping through his flesh on its way and he lets out a pained snarl. Another spear is thrust but the raid leader is able to dodge it swinging his swords wildly but the weapon disappears into the smoke. Making a desperate leap he lands outside the village, crashing hard into the wet sand and it is there that he can see what truly transpired.

Up on the tops of the wooden posts bordering the village stand what the Krait had thought were a bunch of primitive ornaments had actually been three Hylek shrouded in straw spearing them as they scrambled blindly towards the exit. He follows the arch of the tiny smoke pellets still being thrown in and spots the rest of the pathetic frog people perched on the hillside. Seething with rage, the Krait lifts his swords over his head ready to launch them at the disguised Hylek. The swing never comes. The blood gurgles out of his throat before he notices the massive blade wedged through his midsection. Paralysed, he drops his weapons and shakily cranes his neck to meet the purple eyes of his killer.

“You will pay for your insolence!” The Krait manages to cough out, eyes glaring as he chokes on his own blood.  
“Tell that to your friends.” The Norn throws back at him. Fredrik grips the hilt of his greatsword tight and pivots on his heel as he spins around, dislodging the Krait and launching it’s gaping body back into the bay with a booming splash.

The seconds go by achingly slow as the bubbles disappear and the water grows calm. The Cuintli leap off the wooden posts and rally to Fredrik. They position themselves off to the side by a circle of rocks (a ceremonial battle arena Atzintli quips) where the ground is flat with ample room to fight uninhibited and wait for the Krait to make their next move. Soon the water thrashes violently as more serpents breach the water, landing thunderous onto the shore like the sound of beating drums.

Feverish adrenaline courses through his veins and Fredrik bellows with the loudest voice he can muster. “Over here, you filthy worms!”

 

 

Vega hears the crack of a hard body slam onto the water’s surface before he can see the bloodied corpse sink into the Deep. He watches as the Krait gather around in swarms to inspect the body. After some deliberation, the second raiding party set out of the underwater fortress leaving the bottom half of the Deep virtually empty. A scant number of Krait swim along the outskirts and among them he finally spots it.

A Damoss weaves about languidly, the key is tied securely onto the leather sash wrapped around his hip. Vega glances over to Necalli who has spotted the key as well. They wait for the Krait to swim around the bend into the blindspot behind a beam to strike. Vega takes a moment to cloak them in stealth and grasps onto the back of Necalli’s armour plate as the Hylek propels through the water at break-neck speed. Before the Damoss gets the chance to unleash his swords, Necalli spins and impales the Krait through the chest with his spear. Vega swims behind the serpent, wrapping his arms around his thick neck and holding his jaws shut. The Damoss thrashes about in a panic, it clutches cluelessly onto the invisible weapon lodged deep in his chest cavity; to his eyes there is nothing in front of him yet his lungs fill rapidly with water and blood, making it increasingly harder to breathe. His vision fades until darkness takes hold and the Krait goes limp just as the stealth wears off. Vega lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. _So far so good._

They stash the body underneath some debris, leaving the spear inside to avoid letting the scent of blood attract too much attention. Vega hands one of his knives to Necalli and they head for the lowest platform. He keeps a lookout as the frogman opens the cells. Necalli tries to ignore the bodies of his tribesmen that float to the top of their cages, the pungent odour from the decomposing, bloated corpses is nauseating as he wades past. He releases the surviving prisoners with haste, they look worn and ragged but no less relieved to see him. His brethren are too exhausted to swim at their regular speed so Necalli gives Vega the key and slowly guides them towards the coral to lie in wait.

Vega swims up a level to the last cluster of cages. These ones are smaller and hold the Conetl who look up at him with desperate eyes. He quickly unlocks the cells and heads for the final cage at the back with the young Hylek circling close to his side (fortunately they are much more healthy then their elders and swim with impressive bursts of speed). As he slots the key into the lock, he peers into the cell and stops, sap running cold. A pale, green hand clutches at the cell bars and he’s left staring at the frightened eyes of Patli.

 

 

As daylight wanes, Fredrik wipes the sweat off his brow and smirks at the pile of corpses they’ve amassed. The Krait had taken the bait. The serpents approached the shore face and were pelted by poisonous gas bombs launched from the turrets perched on the hillside. Delirious and vulnerable they scrambled, making easy pickings for the four warriors. Atzintli pulls her spear out of a Krait, the Cuintli stab at each body for good measure and return to Fredrik’s side with satisfied grins. The Norn returns the smile and watches the few Krait lingering in the water as the poison dissipates.

“For a species with no legs, you lot sure are weak at the knees!” Fredrik taunts, standing leisurely with his greatsword balanced over his shoulder, “A bunch of limp-spined worms not even fit to stomp under my boot!”  
The Krait snarl at him for that. He takes a fighting stance, the Cuintli form a line in front with spears at the ready.  
“Down with the Krait!” Atzintli shouts, empowering her tribesmen as the enraged serpents start charging at them.

“Enough!” A voice echoes across the beach.

The Krait stop their assault as if commanded and a Hylek leaps from the hill all the way to the middle of the battlefield.  
“Patli, what are you doing?!” Atzintli yells at the pale green frogwoman. She has her back facing them carrying a net full of jittery hermit crabs and the chieftain whirls around to find none of the villagers up on the hillside. “Where are the others? What happened? Patli!” She screams at her desperately. Patli turns and laughs.

Her eyes begin to sink into her sockets until there are only black, empty voids staring back at them. The glossy pale, green skin turns a lumpy, muddy grey, flesh undulating grotesquely. Her laughter is haunting and unceasing, the scar that runs down her spine crackles unnaturally loud as it rips open revealing the pink-white underbelly of the witch hiding within. She slithers upwards, pulling the frog skin inside out until what is left of the disguise disappears at her tail. Her light blue scales shimmer in the orange afternoon sun, contrasting with the dark metallic armour plating and horned helmet piece adorning her figure. The rings coiling up the expanse of her neck jingle as she stretches to her full height. The Krait witch dwarfs all the others, staring face to face with Fredrik.

“It was fun watching you flounder so desperately, the spark in your eyes slowly snuffing out with every invasion— it was delectable.” She shakes the net jostling the crabs, “But now that I have most of you, there’s no point in wearing that repulsive costume any longer.”

The two Cuintli run in a zig-zag at the witch, hoping that at least one of them will reach the net. Before they get close, she flings her arms out casting chains from her palms that harpoon the Hylek and pull them into her clutches. She grasps them with both hands and with a poof they too transform into crabs. Atzintl watches the one-sided battle in disbelief, losing all her tribesmen takes its toll on her and she drops to her knees, spear discarded on the sand.

“Foolish weaklings!” The witch laughs maniacally, “Did you really think anyone could escape my grasp? You should do yourself a favour and join your kin!”

The Krait witch sways unhurried towards the water as darkness sweeps across the sky bringing with it a glitter of stars. The moon shines particularly bright, illuminating the surface of the bay. Fredrik scans the shoreline for any sign of Vega or the rest of the Zopatl, none of them have returned yet. He needs to buy more time.

“You there, sea hag!” He instigates, catching the huge cyan serpent’s attention enough for the witch to turn around with an unimpressed look.  
“You’ve been sending nothing but fodder at me all day and frankly I’m bored! Give me a real challenge!” Fredrik flashes her a devious smile. “I can make it worth your while.”

“And what do you have that I would want?” She gives him a curious smirk, slithering a little closer.

“Me, of course!” He points his greatsword at the witch as he skites. “You have a village worth of Hylek but there is only one of me! If you can best me in combat, I will let you do with me whatever your twisted mind desires.”

An excited lilt escapes from her lips. “A tempting offer...” she drops the net and saunters to him, “how about I just take you right now?”

 

 

Under stealth Vega guides Patli and the Conetl back to the rendezvous point with relative ease. Necalli stares alarmingly at the small green frogwoman, whipping his head in the direction of the village.  
“If you are here then we have been deceived!” He whispers harshly, “We must return to our grounds now!”

Vega concurs with a nod; under blackening waters they will be able to swim undetected, if they hug the wall even the most weakened of villagers can keep pace and they will escape into the forest under the cover of night. With the moonlight shining bright over the water’s surface, he can tell from the ripples undulating on the far side of the village that Fredrik is managing to keep the Krait occupied— allowing clear passage on their side. He signals the Hylek to start moving but Patli jostles his shoulder urgently.

“Wait!” She hisses, pointing a webbed finger at the lone Hypnoss slithering its way back to the Deep with a net full of crabs. Vega doesn’t see the exigency, if anything he’d prefer not to alert a Hypnoss of their presence; the Krait’s ranged magic is difficult to predict underwater not to mention their crippling lack of visibility if they did engage the cloaked serpent. He looks at her questionably.

“You don’t understand,” she directs his gaze to the net, “those are Hylek! I can tell. The witch used my magic to transform them, we have to get them back!”

“Don’t be a fool, Patli!” Necalli interrupts, “We have to bring our people to safety.”

“At the cost of others?” She snaps back at him, “You saw the corpses of our brethren down there. We cannot allow her to take anyone else.”

Thorns. Vega scowls. If what Patli says is true, the Hypnoss will be heading straight for the lower chambers alerting the rest when he sees the prisoners have gone missing. They will need to take it down. He looks over to the frog warrior.

The Cuintli’s face contorts in anguish, clearly conflicted. With a heavy sigh he agrees turning to Vega, “We will catch it off guard like the last one.” He clutches the measly dagger the Sylvari gave to him; they won’t have the range on a spear but it will have to do, “Can you cloak us?”

He inclines his head gesturing to the empty platform the Krait is swimming towards. The moon reflects over its shimmering scales giving them a clear target but once the Hypnoss enters the Deep they won’t have that luxury. Vega holds onto the back of Necalli’s armour and concentrates on stealthing as they make their way behind a metal beam waiting for the serpent to come through.

 

 

The sand around Fredrik’s feet starts to tremble and he rolls forward narrowly avoiding the chains summoned beneath. Landing on his feet, he barrels towards the serpent aiming a wide swing across her torso. But the witch is slippery, weaving around his flurry with delighted shrieks as though it was merely a game to her.

A Nimross surges forward jabbing at Fredrik with his spear. He stops his attacks to dodge the strike giving the witch the chance to retaliate, launching a cluster of chains from her hands. Flipping the hilt of his blade down, he hides behind the greatsword as the sharp pointed heads ping against it. A Damoss barrels through from his peripheral ready to slice him with dual-swords. He can’t block it in time. Fredrik tenses, waiting for the blow to slice. Instead he hears a clank and the swishing of swords flying through the air, sheathing into the sand. He smiles gratefully at the green back at his side.

“Keep going, Fredrik! I’ll keep the rest at bay!” Atzintli yells over her shoulder, jabbing her spear at the retreating Damoss. Fredrik gives her a quick nod and starts the assault anew.

It is a slow, arduous task, having to block her projectiles with every stride but soon the witch is within striking distance and he unleashes a barrage of swings. She leers amused at his repetitive strikes but soon he is able to telegraph her movements. The witch curves back and Fredrik closes the gap crouching under her hunched form. Her round, black eyes widen as he prepares to uppercut. To his surprise the witch’s smile only gets wider.

“Not so fast!” She sings, slamming her monstrous tail into his side. Fredrik lifts his greatsword to buffer the blow yet the impact is so great it sends him soaring, bouncing across the sand like a skipping stone. His grip loosens enough to fling the sword in the opposite direction, slotting into the sand right by the witch’s slippery hide.

His body lands where the soft sand becomes rock-hard dirt by the forest’s edge, the witch’s high-pitched laughter rings irritably in his ear. Bruised and battered he gets up with a groan. Fredrik wipes the fresh blood running down from his forehead. He isn’t sure if it’s the fall that’s addled his mind but an idea snaps into his head and he plans to put it in action. Muscles protesting he starts limping back towards the beach. The witch begins throwing chain after chain at him with reckless abandon.

“You know you can’t beat me!” She cackles. “Why waste both our time when you can just submit?”

He’s too focussed to give a response, with his sizable bulk Fredrik barely manages to dodge each chain thrown his way. The sharp ends nick his skin when his side steps aren’t wide enough but he doesn’t register the stinging, rather his every sense is honed in on the witch’s swings. Fredrik sways left and right almost as though he was conducting where the next chain will hit. He waits until the gaps between each chain gets shorter and the vexed witch launches two simultaneously. He lets the harpoon ends fly by him, grasping both chains with his hands and wrapping them around his arms before pulling taunt. The witch’s eyes widen; she wasn’t expecting him to get himself caught. She feels the tug and a raspy giggle escapes her lips.

“A contest of strength?” The idea amuses her so much she grips onto the end of the chains with a twinkle in her black eyes, “How delightful!”

The Krait witch rears up, arms flexed and drags the Norn forward, his feet scrape through the sand for a couple of inches before finding purchase and planting firmly on the ground. His sweat causes the chains to slip slowly but his grip only tightens until his knuckles grow white. He pulls with all his might, the chains dig into his skin from the effort and manages to haul the huge serpent woman across the sand with a surprised yelp. She twists her tail forward buffering the sand to steady herself and pulls back with equal strength. The minutes go by as the chains creak from the strain—They are at a stalemate. The witch’s enthusiasm for their little game grows shorter by the second and her expression soon turns sour.

“While you seem to have all the time in the world to play tug of war, I have better things to do.” She drops her hold on the chains, rattling as they pull taut from her palms, “I’m ending this now.”

She summons her magic, commanding the enchanted chains to retract unyielding back into her hands. The chains drag the Norn rapidly towards her, breaking the skin around his meaty arms as he rushes into her clutches. The witch flashes him a cruel, toothy grin; one touch and her victory is assured. She revels in his desperation, relishing the futility of his struggles and how his face contorts in displeasure. Except as his hulking form comes speeding closer she realises he’s not distressed in the slightest, rather his face, caked in dirt, sand and blood, is set with determination; his scowl merely accentuating the fire in his amethyst eyes and she realises her mistake too late. This is what he wanted— for her to lose patience and bring him closer to her at such a velocity that she wouldn’t have time to dodge an attack. She disperses the chains and stretches her arms outward, ready to latch onto him before he can make a move.

The momentum sends Fredrik careening into the Krait witch. In an instant he snatches her wrists and slams his forehead into her serpent skull; a resounding crack (he isn’t sure from who’s head) whips through the air like thunder and an inhuman wail rips from the witch’s mouth. He digs his heels into the sand and stops just before the shore, dropping the serpent woman into the shallow waters with a harsh splash. She curls in on herself, clutching at the right side of her head where a steady stream of blood oozes from her eye socket, staining the sand beneath in globs of red. Her hands shake profusely, clenching over her skull as she realises her fingers don’t feel the eye that supposed to be there. She whimpers as she looks up at the Norn.

“Hurts doesn’t it?” Fredrik taunts between breaths, wiping the sticky, fresh fluid caked on his forehead.

The sight of him infuriates the witch more than ever before and she decides he’s not worth taking alive. With a snarl she slithers from underneath him further into the bay.

“I’ll show you what true suffering is!”

Her abdominal muscles quiver as she drags her humanoid torso upright and throws her left arm in the air. A faint green glow emanates from her palm and the surrounding Krait stand at attention. Atzintli tilts her head curiously at the sudden change, lowering her spear slightly as their dark orb-like eyes suddenly flash green and their heads swivel in unison towards the witch and the Norn. Bubbles start to surface on the calm dark sea behind her until the water gurgles violently as though the liquid is boiling.

In the confusion the witch sneakily ebbs further into the water and Fredrik makes a grab for her, digging his nails into her scales to no avail, her snake-like body too slippery to find purchase. A Nimross rushes into view thrusting a spear his way. He leaps backwards to avoid the weapon and the witch slips from his grasp. The rest of the Krait rally towards her, forcing Atzinli to retreat to Fredrik’s side.

“W-what’s happening?” She clutches her spear nervously, looking between the Norn and the thrashing water. Fredrik picks up his discarded greatsword and slowly steps back to drier ground. The cuts along his forearms sting like tiny shards of glass are embedded inside and he strains to hold the hilt of his weapon with both hands.

“Whatever happens, we have to keep the witch’s attention here,” he hushes the high-strung chieftain, quickly scanning the shoreline, “the others haven’t come back yet.”

His breath is ragged, heaving gulps of air as his vision blinks in and out of focus. Maybe he’s had one too many hits to the head. Fredrik squares his shoulders and holds his greatsword with an iron grip, gaze rheumy but focal as the black shoreline becomes distorted by the emerging Krait— they form a barricade, twice the number that came before and, with just the two of them left standing, twice as intimidating. He looks past the horde, straight at the witch; gaze set on him, her one good eye swirls black full of malice and Fredrik smirks knowing she won’t try to escape.

Atzintli’s stance wavers at the sight of the writhing serpents gathering in front of the witch. The chieftain glances over at the battle-worn outsider; his tunic is matted with grime and gore, the visible skin is torn and bruised all over but his eyes are as clear as the rising sun and she finds solace in the bright, burning purple. Her webbed feet plant firmly on the sand. They will hold their ground or return to it.

With maniacal splendour the Krait witch throws her left arm forward releasing the serpents like a great dam breaking loose. The two warriors stand unyielding and brace for the incoming tide.

 

 

Necalli bobs along with the current as inconspicuous as passing debris beside the beam. They will only have one chance—if they lose the Hypnoss in the shadows their chances of striking again before others are notified are slim. Vega focuses on keeping the cloak active for as long as possible. He can tell under their invisibility that his burgundy foliage is glowing an intense red, a natural biochemical reaction to the surrounding darkness and what is usually a boon allowing him to see in the night now becomes a potentially deadly curse.

They watch the encroaching Krait with apprehension waiting for the perfect moment to engage. Necalli holds onto the side of the beam, his feet planted on the metal and his legs coiling tight ready to launch. Vega brings his elbows closer to his torso staying as close and streamlined to the Hylek’s back as he can. They wait for what feels like an eternity for the Hypnoss to descend to the cells far enough away as to not alarm the Krait on the higher platforms and not close enough that the moonlight is swallowed by the underwater fortress. Like a torpedo Necalli unleashes the full force of his amphibious legs bursting through the water at break-neck speed. The Cuintli holds the dagger with both hands outstretched giving the weapon as much distance as he can muster.

The Hypnoss swims undeterred, his features shrouded by the ragged hood draped over his shoulders. They launch steadfast at its chest, the dagger mere inches from its target until suddenly a burst of black explodes out from the Krait’s body. The force of it sends Necalli violently backwards, ripping Vega from his back and disabling their stealth. The Hypnoss whips his head around, honing in on the stark red Sylvari. He thrusts an arm out summoning black claw-like projectiles and Vega barely curves around it with hasty flails. Necalli rights himself, slowly getting his bearings before spotting the Krait pelting the Sylvari with dark magic. He swims back into the fray brandishing the small knife in his tight fist. Necalli swipes at the Krait, distracting him long enough for Vega to vanish back into stealth. He observes the two aquatic warriors in action; they seem to be equally matched, Necalli dodges deftly in and out of the ranged attacks and the Hypnoss slithers around the Hylek’s stabs adroitly. He will have to break the tie.

While the Hypnoss has his back turned fighting the Cuintli, Vega swims hurriedly aiming to impale his knife through the jugular and end the struggle quick. As he gets close the Krait gains the upper hand and blasts Necalli away leaving a searing handprint in the centre of his chest. The Hylek lets out a pained warble and Vega knows he has to strike now. He pulls back his arm and swings with all his might but the water's resistance drags the blade a second too slow. The Krait whirls around his clawed hand slices through the water until it hits his aquabreather and latches on. The Hypnoss pumps its dark magic into the apparatus filling it with thick plumes of poison that melts the gear, warping the metal and singeing the tender bark underneath.  
Vega redirects his blade, stabbing the Hypnoss in the arm. The Krait lets go with a jolt. He props his feet onto the serpents chest and kicks off, gaining a fair distance as he unclasps the broken aquabreather. Stray bubbles escape when he discards the piece, the Krait zeroes in on them and despite his invisibility the serpent slithers straight for him. He propels his body through the water as fast as he can but the serpent is unquestionably faster, it will close the gap in a matter of seconds.

Necalli hotfoots it to them, the pain causes his limbs to lock up and he watches helplessly as the Hypnoss swims further away from him and closes in on the faintly blinking Sylvari (he notices the outsider no longer has his breather, the lack of air must be breaking his concentration). The darkness makes it hard to see what happens next, but from what Necalli could tell the Krait was an arm’s length away from grasping the flailing Sylvari before it erupted into a cloud of smoke. His eyes bulge out of his socket as the smoke disperses revealing a sparkfly wriggling miserably in the water before going still and sinking to the seabed. Vega swivels around equally as confused until his red glow illuminates the webbed hand over his shoulder. Patli smiles down at him and he gives her a grateful look. Necalli quickly grabs the sinking bag of chittering crabs and rejoins them.

Suddenly a great roar rumbles the bay. They turn their heads to the source; a wave of dread passes through them as they stare at the writhing mass of Krait emerging from the upper platforms. Something has them riled up. Like a hive of bees they erupt from Stormwreck Deeps towards the surface, sweeping the current with them. Patli wraps her arms around Vega, shielding his glow from sight as they try to keep hidden in the turbulent water. They watch the Krait breach the water a sizable distance away from the village—giving them the perfect opportunity to escape. They hastily swim back to the remaining villagers, Necalli makes his way to the front signalling the rest to follow. Patli sticks close to Vega, watching him with worried eyes. He shakes his head; he knows he’s a liability and he’s running out of breath. Vega pushes Patli away signalling he’ll meet them back on land. Reluctantly she gathers the Conetl and gives him one last look before heading up with the others.

Vega swims further back, making sure to give the escaping Hylek as much distance as possible before his need for air drives him to surface and gulps in a desperate breath. He bobs low on the waves, watching as Necalli reaches the shoreline on the west side of the village furthest from the battle. Breathing a sigh of relief, he shifts his gaze to the two figures on the sandy beach and the massive blob of serpent bodies assembled in front of a much larger Krait. He waits until the rest of the villagers disappear into the lush greenery before he starts skimming his way towards the shore; even with everyone back they will need all the help they can get.

He passes through a few waves before something impales through his right calf and his scream is swallowed by the sea.

 

 

The grains of sand bounce erratically at Fredrik’s feet as the horde of Krait charge at him and the chieftain. His vision remains partially skewed but with the sheer number of them charging he could probably swing in any direction and cleave at least a couple. He greets the serpents with an almost unhinged grin, pitching his leg forward and flexing his arms back ready to strike. Atzintli stands resolute by his side.

A whooshing sound catches in his ears and Fredrik looks up astonished as a barrage of arrows descend upon the battlefield creating a line between them and halting the Kraits as they too turn their heads to the large mossy rock formation and the lone figure perched atop. His face breaks into uncontrollable glee as he recognises the feathery silhouette.

“Swift Arrow!” He yells ecstatically as the Tengu releases another volley.

The arrows land in the middle of the Krait; most move out of the way but some are caught in the fray and their corpses line the centre effectively splitting the swarm in half— opening a clear path to the Krait witch. Her eye widens aghast at the unexpected turn of events staring between the figure on the cliffside and the her fallen men.

“What are you waiting for?” She growls at them, “Attack!”

Her call snaps them back to attention and they charge once more, moving around the tight knit array of arrows pinned on the ground. Swift Arrow lands a few through the neck but the rest gain more ground and swarm them on either side. Fredrik and Atzintli stand back to back slashing and stabbing the funneled Krait. The chieftain’s flurries get slower by the minute and her breath grows heavy as the Krait come at them unceasingly. This isn’t getting them anywhere. The Norn pushes back the Krait while stealing glances at the sickening smirk plastered on the witch’s smug face. He knows he’s one swing away from ending her once and for all but as another two Krait push through he lets out a frustrated grunt as the chance to do so slowly draws to a close.

“Down with the Krait!” A chorus of croaks fill the battlefield as three Hylek leap from the hills impaling the Krait with their long spears as they land.

“Necalli! Ollin! Tialli! ” The Chieftain cheers, “Praise the Sun God you’ve returned!”

“We will celebrate later!” Necalli hollers, “We must open a path for the outsider! The witch cannot be allowed to escape!”

As the Cuintli spread out, the field is pelted with green noxious gas and Atzintli looks on with rapturous eyes over the hills where the Hylek villagers have resumed manning the turrets. The sight of them invigorates the chieftain and she bellows with renewed strength, charging in with the others. Under the cover of gas and arrows and flanked by the four armoured Hylek the Krait are held at bay. Fredrik stomps forward unopposed, the surroundings fade away as he focuses solely on the half-blind Krait witch.

“No,” she stares at him like a cornered animal, “no, no, no, no, no!”  
The witch desperately throws chain after chain at the Norn, her aim is abysmally lacking, stripped away when her eyeball burst and her entire being shakes as his predatory eyes stay latched to hers. The chains curve around him and he doesn’t break his stride. He hold his greatsword in his left hand, his right grips onto a chain. The pull sends her mind reeling and then blank as the sword impales through her soft underbelly sinking right into the hilt.

Silence sweeps the battleground as her wet flesh slides from the blade and hits the water limp. Her blood soaks the shore face and as if broken from a trance the Krait scramble chaotically retreating from the Zoptal Grounds and dispersing into the bay. The Hylek bellow triumphantly and nip at their heels jabbing at the stranglers until none are left on the sand. The villagers race down to the shore to meet the heroes; friends and family reunited, they hug and wail joyously. He spots the Tengu archer walking towards them from the footpath and jogs up to greet him.

“Swift Arrow, my friend! Thank the Spirits you got here when you did, I thought we were snake-food!” Fredrik pulls the man into the hug. The Tengu chuckles patting him softly on the back until he loosens his grip.

“Yes, I saw the commotion from the bridge.” He grimaces slightly at the blood and dirt smeared on his tunic and brushes some off his shoulder. “It would’ve been rather discourteous of me to send you straight into trouble. Not that you didn’t handle yourself marvelously.” With a swish of his hand, the arrows magically disperse into the air, leaving the Krait bodies strewn across the beach. “I’ve left my post for long enough, please give the Valiant my regards.”  
Fredrik frowns; come to think of it, there’s a distinct lack of a certain stoic Sylvari amongst the crowd and he scans the area for the man.

A small pale, green Hylek who Fredrik presumes to be the real Patli barrels into his legs, her panic-stricken eyes bore into his as she pleads.  
“There was an outsider with us! He lost his breather and has not yet surfaced,” she watches the calming waters with dread, “I fear the worst.”

 

 

Vega’s head spins from the sudden plunge; the rush of water makes him lightheaded and he has trouble discerning which way is up. Pain flares from his leg sending sharp jolts that snap him to attention. He’s sinking fast, the moon but a small white disc above him and he looks down at the spear lodged in his leg; the tip is spiked, acting as a hook as the rope attached to the wood shaft drags him rapidly to the seabed. He fights the current, bending his torso to grab at the spear and work at the rope with his dagger. Soon the line is cut and he kicks up with crazed purpose— the gulp of air he managed to take won’t last much longer. In his desperation Vega fails to notice the pair of eyes following his ascent.

Like a speeding torpedo a Nimross glides from the shadowy depths and wraps its long, scaly body around Vega, the coil wound so tight he can hear his bark snapping from the pressure. His left arm is left dangling as the Krait stops and allows their combined weight to carry them down into the depths once more. The Krait flexes his serpentine body, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Vega glares up at the Nimross’ face irradiated by his red glow; a toothy grin is plastered on his face, he seems satisfied to drag this on and watch his prey slowly drown. The contents of his belt slide out as they sink faster and even though his vision starts to blur he catches the twinkle of familiar metal.

Snatching the blade with his left hand, he plunges the dagger into the Nimross, slotting it into any segment of the serpent he can reach. That only seems to enrage the Krait and with a growl he wraps his claws around Vega’s neck to speed up the process. He presses just hard enough not to crush the windpipe, coaxing the last bit of oxygen out of the flailing Sylvari. Water rushes into his throat and he can feel his lungs burning as he loses grip on the blade.

His body goes limp as his consciousness fades and (probably his waterlogged mind playing tricks he thinks) a massive shadow looms from above. In a flash thick muscular arms wrap around the Nimross and the last thing he sees are red-tinted, amethyst eyes staring back at him.

 

_Explosion. Fire. Death._

_He is paralysed with fear as flying ships— what are they? He has never seen anything like them— plummet all around him leaving nothing but destruction in their wake._

_There must be survivors._

_He does not know how long he has been running. Ash and smoke are all he can see in front of him. The crunch of debris under his feet and his ragged breath muffle through his skull until a voice resonates from afar._

_Vega._

_The sound of her voice washes over him, He knows this woman and yet he does not._

_Vega._

_He runs faster than he ever thought possible. He has to find her._

_Vega._

_He is close—_

 

“VEGA!”

His eyes snap open, barely making out the bearded face standing over him before he tries to breathe and turns over heaving water out of his lungs.

“Thank Wolf! Good thing I saw your red glow, it’s pitch black down there!” Fredrik pats him supportively as he splutters onto the sand, “When you’re done with that I need you to stay still for me, alright?” He gets up and steps over to Vega’s punctured leg, the spear still wedged in, “I’m going to pull it out.”

After a few steadying breaths Vega nods, watching the Norn lift the spear and snap it in two. The pain sends shockwaves through his body but Vega grits his teeth and gestures for the Norn to proceed. Fredrik grasps the harpoon end; the sap oozing from the wound glues the remaining pole tight, he gives a few light tugs to test the give. It does not budge. He tightens his grip, keeping Vega’s leg down with his other hand and gives him one last warning look before ripping out the spear with all his might. A pained groan escapes the Sylvari’s throat and he throws the piece back into the bay.

Fredrik lifts the man, supporting his back as they limp off the beach.  
“So,” The Norn starts, “seeing as it’s hard to tell which Krait fell to the spears or my sword and Swift Arrow’s arrows disappear, I’m going to say I killed at least twenty.” Vega looks up at him baffled. Are we really doing this now? “And I think it’s fair to say the witch was worth at least ten of them.” Fredrik grins down at him,

“How many did you get?”

“...two.”

Fredrik whoops triumphant and Vega chuckles lightly as they enter the village.

 

 

The Zopatl tribe is set alight; bright coloured lamps glitter beautifully on the rooftops and the rythmic thumping of music fills the air. The villagers revel and rejoice, finally having reason to celebrate. A great feast is spread in the centre of the festivities and Fredrik devours the unique delicacies heartily.

As Atzintli regales the tribe of their glorious battle, the Norn saunters to a quiet corner where Vega and Patli reside drinking bottles of a mysterious neon green liquid. She offers him some as his approaches.

“I used to be a tradesman before I was abducted,” she explains, “this was our most popular export, Hylek Absinthe.”

Fredrik takes a gulp. The concoction is bitter but not overly so, the herbal flavour seduces both his palette and nose with floral and spicy tones that remind him of an Alpine field. The alcohol packs a powerful punch, burning delightfully down his throat.

“It’s very refreshing,” he praises, “and you make this yourself?”

“Yes, with ingredients picked from the forest and a few globs of my saliva to speed up the process.”

He pauses mid-sip.

“I'm sorry, but I didn't hear a word you said after ‘globs of my saliva’.”

“Why does saliva make you hesitate?” She tilts her head to the side, giving him a curious look, “We use our saliva in all of our alchemy. Bodily fluids are a key ingredient in all of our magic.”

He nods courteously as she leaves a tray of the brew behind, rejoining the other and then hastily hands Vega the rest of his bottle. Fredrik watches with morbid fascination as the Sylvari downs the drink. Vega leans back against the wall, closing his eyes and savouring the taste.

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff knowing that it’s got frog spit in it.”

“Says the man who was happily munching away at flies and mosquitoes,” he retorts, “and it helps dull the pain.”

Fredrik kneels down to inspect the wound; the hole is still gaping, he can see the other side quite clearly and it mildly disturbs him that he cannot see any sort of bone structure there.

“Do you need a medic?”

Vega waves off his concern. “It will not trouble me, come morning.”

Upon closer inspection he can see small tendrils starting to sprout from the hole and he watches intrigued as they slowly stitch together.

“Well I’m glad you’re alright. I thought I’d have to find another tracker so soon into our journey!” Fredrik flops onto the bench beside him, ripping at a crunchy insect leg. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just teleport like before, who knows what would’ve happened if I didn’t find you.”

“It is called shadowstepping,” Vega opens his eyes and pops another bottle, “and if you have ever thrown anything underwater, you will find it does not go very far.”

Fredrik waits for him to finish the drink, shuddering at the alchemic liquid. “You know, I’ve never met a Sylvari who drinks as much as you do.”

A memory surfaces into his mind and Vega lets the words roll off his tongue. “My first mentor Aife had exquisite taste,” he smiles fondly into the bottle, “she travelled the world and came back with the most exotic brews. I was forced to indulge her eccentricities until somewhere along the line they became my own." Fredrik observes the far-away look in Vega's eyes and thinks the smile etched on his face is probably not for him, "She could drink any Norn under the table.”

“You speak highly of this woman.”

“She is a firstborn, one of the oldest of our kind and a terrific marksman. It was a great honour to train under her.” He speaks these words with conviction, glancing at the Norn staring intently at him.

Remembering Swift Arrow’s remark, Fredrik prys further while the Sylvari feels chatty.

“Then why haven’t you kept in touch?”

Vega takes a moment to ponder the question. He chooses his next words with care. “Aife was an excellent coach but her words were always better than her aim. She represented our people and went on many diplomatic missions. Our time together grew shorter and when I learned all I could I left to train with Master Swift Arrow and then other masters over several years. I have not heard from her since.”

His response only poses more questions.  
“Why were you training so rigorously? Did you have a mission as well?”

Vega visibly tenses, whirling iron set asunder dance in his eyes, the memory made fresh pushed to the forefront of his mind and he chooses not to answer, instead looking up at the Norn.  
“What about you? You are clearly a formidable warrior, what do you need to prove with this hunt?”

“Bah!” Fredrik barks at him, “I don’t want to be remembered as Fredrik, Butcher of Krait! This is but a stepping stone. My legend will be grand and I know in my gut these elusive beasts will be the key.”

Vega nods along and his words slur slightly as the absinthe leaves a gratifying buzz in his skull. “I am honoured to be part of your legend. You’ve proven to be a reliable fighter and I thank you for saving me.”

The laughter that spills out of the Norn is infectious and he slaps the smaller man on the back. “I like this sentimental side of you! Perhaps we need to bring some bottles with us!”

Fredrik stands, bringing Vega with him towards the food platter where the celebrations are in full swing. “Come eat! Contrary to your belief, a recovering body needs more than just booze.”

They settle in somewhere in the middle where the chieftain finishes her tale with a bow and Fredrik chimes in with another. Patli shuffles closer to Vega passing him another round of Hylek brew. She raises a toast in their honour and they drink the night away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: If you do battle the Krait Witch in-game, she sounds exactly like Izzy from Digimon and it takes all the tension right out.


	4. First Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Sometimes I just wish I had something more portable to write on the go *sigh* but it's here now so hooray! Enough excuses, let's get this show on the road!
> 
> Enjoy <3

Warmth bathes over the sandy shores as Fredrik emerges from a hut to greet the morning. Having just finished his riveting journal entry piece, he closes the book with a snap before strolling out of the village. Cuintli stand on guard at the water’s edge, their bronze armour gleaming in the sunlight almost as bright as the fiery resolve in their eyes. He meets the chieftain by her post closest to the village.

“Spotted any of those snakes yet?” He asks, looking at the dark towers protruding from the bay.

“No, I don’t think they will attack so soon after the loss of their matriarch.” Atzintli breathes in the crisp morning air, “So long as they live, times will be tough. That said, your deeds have eased the tribe's burdens and given us hope for future sunrises. Thank you.”

“May Bear be with you in battles to come.” Fredrik beams at the Hylek, shaking her outstretched hand.

She looks at him with blissful eyes, “The Sun truly shines through you. You may not be one of us in body, but in spirit, you are clearly of the Hylek. You would have made a great member of the Zopatl.”

“Thank you, friend.” He replies, “Maybe when my journey is over, we will meet again.”

“Until then, here’s something to remember us by.” Atzintli pulls out a small glass with a star-shaped lid and a vibrant coloured liquid swirling inside, “We hold our war paint in this jar. When the battle is over, we give to the hero, in this case, that would be you.”

“A wonderful gift!”

Vega watches the exchange, leaning on the wall of a hut as the chieftain hands Fredrik a small object and the Norn in turn whips out his book to show what he presumes is the drawing of the beast. Patli walks over to his side.

“I made you something,” she lifts her hand up shyly; in her palm a small oval container lays, “it’s an ointment for wounds. May it serve you well.”

“Thank you.” He takes the jar graciously and puts it in his pouch. The cream is ineffective for his bark but it’s the thought that counts.

“Thank you for your help.” Patli gingerly places a hand on his leg, “While I regret that the Krait witch was able to use me for her nefarious deeds, at least I got to meet someone like you. You’re very special.”

“Stop flirting with the outsider, Patli. You’ll scare him off.” Necalli huffs returning with the forest patrol squad. The frogwoman sticks her tongue out at him playfully. Before things turn awkward Vega gets back on track.

“You said you collect ingredients from Glencarn Sperrins?” He inquires. It is one of the few areas left in Caledon that is relatively uninhabited.

“Yes, I have a small house in the middle of the forest to do my work.”

“Have you spotted a large feline creature? One with dark stripes on its coat?”

“There is a cliff to the south,” Necalli answers, “atop of which is a tree so great that its roots stretch to the forest floor. We've seen a creature with markings like those you describe there on our rounds.”

“I haven’t seen it myself but I do know that tree,” Patli chimes in, “if you spot my house down the path then you’re going the right way.”

_Finally we have a lead._ He keeps the excitement from his face when he thanks them both and turns to towards Fredrik who calls him over.  
“Atzintli saw one in the forest! Let’s make haste!”

They say their goodbyes and start their path into Glencarn Sperrins.

 

The evergreen forest is home to many creatures; the sparse trees spread thin across the mossy expanse are fiercely guarded by raptors and the various rocky cliffs are stained in silky white spider webs. Grubs and mosquitoes are strewn about its expanse creating a buzzing symphony that carries through the leaves. A multitude of eyes stare warily at the two travellers making their way through the forest, taking the dirt path carved from the Hylek’s daily patrol. As they get further in, the greenery starts to variate, the floor teeming with plants and fungi of all shapes and sizes. They come across Patli’s simple hut perched at the base of a tree trunk and from there they spot it.

At the very top of a towering, cavernous cliff lies an enormous tree. Its trunk is as wide as a Norn lodge and its branches look as though they caress the clouds above. The thick roots of this mighty tree cascade down the moss-laden rocks and curtain the floor like archways. Underneath its shade grass does not grow, leaving the soil damp and cool. By contrast the pile of sticks and straws stand out completely and they zero in on the nest.

Fredrik stops at a distance pulling out his journal.  
“This one is bigger than the last one isn’t it?” He jots down, “Maybe it decided to settle for grubs and live here.”

Certainly this nest was made with more care. Judging from the size it could easily accommodate a large animal. Vega kneels besides the bedding to inspect further. The motion causes his body to jolt, his leg trembles just enough for Fredrik to take notice and look up from his book.

“Is it giving you trouble? It was a pretty severe injury.” The Norn probes but Vega brushes off his concerns. 

“A mild discomfort, nothing more.”

He picks up a tuft of fur; it’s rough to the touch and tangled in thin strands, a common trait of feline coats in warmer climates but it is the colour that intrigues him the most—a distinct burnt orange, a fur he’s never encountered on any animal before. Another question ebbs to the surface of his mind. _If it hunts in the night, where is it now?_

Vega presses his palm flat on the straws near the centre. It’s faint but he can feel the heat still present on the ground. His leaves stand on end and he whips his head up.  
“Be alert. It could still be—”

His body slams head first into the ground in an instant. Six hundred pounds of force crush the shoulder under its massive paw and a shiver runs down his spine at the guttural growl just above his head.

“Vega!”

He hears Fredrik’s thunderous boots as the Norn barrels in. With a grunt the weight is lifted and he springs up, rolling away from the nest. He rolls onto his feet, the sudden burst sends pain shooting from his leg as it strains to hold his weight. His head is fuzzy from the fall but his focus is pinned on the creature landing gracefully silent a short distance away.

Even when it’s hunched low beneath the shadowy roots Vega can tell it is at least five feet in height and double that in length—a monstrously huge feline. Its fur is a gradient of dark sienna at the top fading into orange and then white on its underside, all lined by black gash-like stripes. Underneath the coat its huge muscular form ripples, coiling tight and ready to pounce.  
Vega clutches his left shoulder, wincing as he feels the bark crumbling at the joint. He’s down an arm, a leg and woefully unequipped; all of his knives are lost at the bottom of the bay except for the one Necalli returned to him. He slides the blade into his hand and stays crouched defensively.

Fredrik obscures the Sylvari from the beast, glancing back at the hunter’s shaky leg—Vega’s not going to be able to move from that spot. He wields his greatsword with both hands and squares his shoulders as the Sylvari vanishes in stealth.

The beast’s eyes swivel around them, fuddled by its prey disappearing until it locks eyes with Fredrik and growls showing off its formidable row of teeth and long canines. His hands tremble with exhilaration, he can’t help the smile that curls on his face. For the beast to reveal itself so soon, Wolf must truly be on his side. He waits for the animal to make the first move, watching intently as its shoulders rock and hunch lower and lower.

With a feral roar the beast launches from the shadows into the rocky clearing, closing the gap with a single leap. Fredrik rolls to the side and shuffles backwards, leading the feline away from Vega’s hidden form. It follows him slashing at his blade with powerful swipes; the force of its swings knocks the sword off-centre and he has to quickly readjust before the next blow. Each parry takes its toll on his greatsword, the claws leaving impressions on the metal. The minutes go by and his body is littered with shallow cuts from sidestepping not quite far enough from its reach. He needs to go on the offensive.

Tilting the blade to the side, he swings wide as though he was wielding a giant fan. The gale from it sends the beast reeling back and he takes the initiative, slashing down as the beast regains balance. Despite its enormous bulk, the beast evades the sword easily, weaving side to side with a surprising amount of agility. He hasn’t landed a single hit yet but the battle stirs a fire from within him and Fredrik’s swings get harder and faster as the adrenaline burns hot in his core.

Like lava erupting from the earth, he unleashes one final swing, spinning his body fully and striking the blunt end of his greatsword into the beasts torso. He leans on a nearby boulder, staring perplexed at his palm that seems to be pulsating hot and red. The beast careens into the rock face with a heavy thud and struggles to its feet. It stares back at him with a bewildered expression as though comprehending its opponent for the first time. Its demeanour shifts, its eyes distracted; caught between the man in front and the path to the right leading away from the forest.

Fredrik follows its gaze, the thought of it escaping brings out a primal need, his muscles overflow with renewed strength.

“You cannot run from me!” He roars, willing the heat to pool to his leg.

With a stomp the boulder cracks and Fredrik releases a shattering blow to it, hurling the rock at great speed right next to the startled beast. The only exit is through him.  
Vega watches as Fredrik gains the upper hand and corners the injured beast by the rockwall. The Norn is winning and yet something doesn’t feel right. The leaves on the back of his head still quiver; he attributed it to the adrenaline coursing through his bark but his senses are telling him otherwise. He can feel another pair of eyes somewhere in the undergrowth.

A twig snaps to his right and he surges forward as another beast leaps from the thicket. Its coat is pale compared to the other; the stripes are just a shade darker than the light orange of its extra-white fur. This one is fairly smaller, possessing a more lithe, slender body but no less ferocious. It dives jaws open aiming right for Fredrik’s vulnerable neck. Fredrik doesn’t seem to notice the beast, too preoccupied with the one in front.

He throws his dagger with all his might, the blade sails between the gap and in the blink of an eye Vega stops the beast in its tracks. He lands firmly on his feet with the beast’s teeth lodged squarely into his limp shoulder. The beast grips tight and as if the world slows around them he loses himself in its large, yellow eyes. The pain barely registers, his entire being paralyses with its piercing gaze. 

_I know you._

An overwhelming sense of familiarity drains Vega of all sense, his pupils blown wide and his mouth agape. Then he’s ripped back into reality as the beast swivels its muscular neck shaking him like a rag doll before throwing him across the grass.

He lands in crumbled heap, drawing Fredrik’s attention. The Norn just manages to put up his greatsword to block the pale beast’s vicious flurry of slashes. He pushes the beast off the blade and runs to the wounded Sylvari’s side. The beast does not give chase. Instead he watches the animal nudge at the other and both escape into the distance.

“Bear’s breath!” He curses, “Who’d have thought the other one would show up now.” He manoeuvres Vega into a sitting position.

“They fled in a hurry,” he utters between ragged breaths, “their prints should be easy enough to follow.”

Fredrik hoists the man up, holding onto his good shoulder. Sure enough deep tracks are imprinted on the forest floor leading to the west. They follow the trail until they reach a dead end, encased by rocky cliffs. Fredrik catches the claw marks on the green mossy rocks and wails in frustration.  
“Spirits! Not this again!”

“There iss nothing beyond these cliffs besides the sea.” From observing their strong bodies and palmate paws, he can easily imagine the beasts traversing the rough waters with ease and take refuge on the closest body of land. “We have to assume they are heading into Southsun Cove.”

The rush of the battle washes away and Vega knees buckle as he starts to hear static and everything is suddenly too bright. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips his leg, the pain flaring up from it much worse than his battered shoulder. He’s on the ground before he knows it and blinks up at the Norn shaking him.

“Now you definitely need a medic, you’re dripping all over the place!”  
Fredrik frowns at the Sylvari’s leg, moving to open the boot side seam covering the pant leg. The pants are still ripped from the spear revealing the gaping wound still present and festering. There are vines coiling around the centre acting like bone but the flesh around it hasn’t grown back, the edges that were stitching together the night before have frayed and blackened. He grimaces at the barely conscious man.

“Okay, that doesn’t look right. I’m taking you to see a doctor. The Grove is close by—”

“No!” Vega shakes his head vehemently, “Not there.” With tremendous effort the Sylvari rights himself and starts walking.

“Don’t be daft, Vega!” Fredrik repudiates, scowling down as he walks abreast, “Where else are we supposed to go?”

“I know someone who can help.”

 

Lion’s Arch was a husk of its former glory; the ruins remain a testament to the chaos and destruction Scarlet wrought upon the city. Bridges and buildings alike are collapsed and left in disarray from the Aetherblade bombings. Holes made by the Dredge keep the ground uneven and the Asura gates located in the very heart of the city were beyond repair, sunken to the bottom of the sea. Many of the city’s monuments have fallen into the harbour surrounding the titanic drilling mechanism that ruptured the very core of Tyria beneath—the Breachmaker.

Even in its abysmal state, Lion’s Arch is bustling with activity. The walls are stacked to the brim with building materials, airships fly in to drop supplies and scaffolding daily and the new gates have been temporarily placed in the Eastern ward. Every available area that isn’t under construction is filled with vendors and it is at the salvaged remains of Fort Marriner that Fredrik follows the stubborn Sylvari to.

The soil beneath the foundations dip in and out as though the ground had burst forth, leaving hills and craters across the fort. But that doesn’t seem to deter the merchants from setting up shop; wooden platforms are built around the edges, scrap from broken airships are hauled into a pile in the centre where huge chunks of the fort have impaled and sunken in. Vendors circle the heap taking up as much space as Fort Marriner can provide.

Fredrik walks through the makeshift market, staring questionably as they enter a shabby stall lined with lavish dresses and suits. He notices the distinctly floral theme to each piece and looks on at the Sylvari woman peeking out from behind a mannequin.

“Oh yes, do come in, darling!”

She steps into view; her clothes stem from the middle of her torso, leafy stalks peek out from her skin and grow over her shoulder draping down all the way to her ankles like an elegant wintergreen cape. Thin vines are wrapped around her waist, holding various tool kits and elixirs. The blue-green branches on her head twist neatly to the side, framing her soft pale, sandy yellow face. Spots that resemble freckles mapped on her face glow a bright baby blue, accentuating her curious, calculating eyes as she smiles up at him.

“I’m Terabellum, Botanistress Extraordinaire.” She introduces with a bow, “What can I...”

Her voice trails off as she notices the other person in the room and a high-pitched squeal rips from her dainty throat.  
“Vega! Is it really you?” She bounces, pulling him into a crushing hug, “It’s been too long, darling!”  
She snaps to attention and releases him from her embrace, smiling owlishly at the Norn.  
“I’m terribly sorry, how unprofessional of me. What can I help you with today?”

“It’s quite alright, miss. I’m with him. Call me Fredrik.”

“Well in that case, call me Tera. None of this ‘miss’ nonsense.” She looks bubbly between the two, “I’m guessing this isn’t just a friendly visit?”

“This stubborn yak has more holes than a block of cheese,” Fredrik huffs with his arms folded, “and he insisted on coming here instead of a medic.”

“You two do look a little worse for wear.” She comments, giving them a good once over.

Indeed, Fredrik concurs their gear is looking pretty ragged after the first couple days. His soft purple tunic is matted unattractively to his skin and ripped in various spots, almost falling off his body if not for his straps. Vega’s leather coat isn’t faring much better; the left shoulder padding is frayed beyond repair, the shoulder guard there missing as well as the state of his pants and boots. She turns to Vega and places a gentle hand on his right side.

“Darling, you know I weave Sylvari armour, not actual Sylvari.” Terebellum frowns at him, “I’m not much of a mender.”

“Just take a look.” Vega implores but her eyes hold steadfast, “Please.”

With a sigh she relents, guiding them to the back of the shop behind a tarp. She seats him on a stool and proceeds to snip off parts of his coat, peeling the sap-glued pieces gingerly where the wounds are most visible. His left side is bruised, discoloured in the chest area down to his forearm and he lets out a hiss as she presses into the growing bark. They’re hard and the right shade she deduces, the wounds will heal themselves just fine.

After wiping the excess sap from his back, she kneels and inspects his right leg. Cutting away the pant leg, she gasps at the ugly black vines that crinkle around the hollow space in his calf. She’s seen these before in her experimenting days at the Asuran college, trying to cultivate plant armour outside of their hosts.

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of root rot.” She pats his leg playfully, “Been playing in the water too much have you, brother?”

“Can you fix it?”

Her face turns serious. “You really ought to have this looked at by a mender.”

Fredrik nods along ardently as if to say ‘I told you so’ and Vega’s eye makes an irritated twitch.  
“A mender would take weeks to heal it and we are pressed for time.” He replies tersely, giving the both of them stern looks. They only have a few days until the trail will go cold— there is a high chance the beasts will leave Southsun Cove and cross the ocean again in that time. Vega grips onto Terabellum’s shoulder with urgency, his red eyes stare deep into her blue ones. “Can you fix it?”

She meets his gaze. The determination she feels from it is genuine, whatever’s driving him to such lengths must be worth the risk.  
“Okay,” she acquiesces, getting up to pick a few items from her work desk.  
She returns with a pair of thick smaller scissors, some leather straps and a bottle of mysterious liquid. “I’ve created a solution that encourages rapid plant growth, it will still take a day or so but it should do the trick.”  
Terabellum ties the straps around his leg, securing the limb to the stool and looks up at him tentatively, “I’m going to cut off the rotten parts.”

It’s the only warning she gives him before she pulls at the tendrils and snips where the blackened parts end. Each cuts sends a shock through his body causing him to jolt involuntarily and he’s thankful of the straps holding his leg still lest she misses the vines. A sizable pile lays on the floor, the ends of his roots feel raw and stingy in the open air. She pops open the bottle and pours the pungent liquid into the hole, lathering the upper edges with her hands. Vega bites his arm and leans his head on the table to keep his groans in as he feels the flesh around his leg stretch and sprout unnaturally fast.

“Oh good it works!” She exclaims, observing ecstatically at the new healthy yellow-birch vines slowly bursting from the old roots with a soft sizzle. “At this rate, it should close up nicely by the end of the day but I wouldn’t do anything too extraneous until the bark’s grown over it if I were you.”

“Hold on,” Fredrik stares wide-eyed at the bouncing woman, “you didn’t know if it would work?”

Terabellum bounds away to her work desk with a gleeful hop to her steps.  
“It’s just so exciting!” She giggles, scribbling notes onto parchment, “I’ve only ever used it to grow plants, to think it could be used this way too! You will tell me if you feel any side-effects, won’t you?”

Unclasping the straps, Vega stands up and stretches, the wound only but a dull throbbing compared to before. Vega lets out a sigh of relief, feeling more drained than he did fighting the Krait. “Thank you.” He manages with a hoarse voice. She smiles at him, pleased with her work.

“May I ask where you even got these wounds?” She inquires not looking up from her notes, “It’s not like you to get close enough to injure yourself. Do you not favour the bow anymore?”

Vega glowers, a slight glow lifts onto his face in his embarrassment. Normally he wouldn’t risk himself like that, at the very least not for strangers. Perhaps if he still had his bow things would have gone differently. A large hand rests on his shoulder.  
“He was protecting me from a monstrous beast this morning and an entire village from Krait just yesterday! A valued friend, indeed.” Fredrik grins down at him and his glow shines a shade brighter as he looks away, “Our weapons took a heavy blow.”

“What perfect timing then!” She slaps her pen down and turns, “They just brought in a new Asuran gate straight to the Durmand Priory—I know a pretty great weaponsmith there.”

Vega’s shoulders slump as recognition sets in, “I do not think he would be inclined to help.”

“You just have to appeal to his inner inventor, he’ll be itching to show off I’m sure!” She urges then jumps as her mind sets on other things,  
“That reminds me! You’ll be needing some new clothes.” Terabellum puts her notes away and pulls out a different pair of scissors from her waist as she slides over to him. “May I?”  
Her eyes gleam spectacularly and he can’t help but nod at her enthusiasm. Circling around, she trims the end of his leaves, holding them delicately in a bundle as though they were precious gems. “You’re going to love it, I promise! I have so many ideas, you’ll look amazing!”

“Keep to the original if you can.” He tells her in a calming voice.

“Oh you’re no fun!” She pouts and turns to Fredrik, “How about you, darling? You’d look ravishing in lavender.”

“I think I’ll go for something more on the steel side, thanks.” Remembering back on the beast’s vicious claws, he’d rather not risk it.

“Pity.” Terabellum puts on a crestfallen face, swaying about dramatically before straightening up, “I know the Charr working the armour smithing station here, you’ll be in good hands.” Placing a hand to her lips she sighs, “Oh! But I simply can’t let you two leave looking like this!”

She looks between them, a cunning sheen glosses over her eyes. “Perhaps we can help each other out…”

 

Fredrik tugs at the sleeves of the luxurious three-piece suit wrapped around his person as they exit the stall. The four button wine-coloured waistcoat fits snug on top of the soft white dress shirt he’s been made to wear. The dark purple jacket is adorned with intricate leaves that shimmer in the light and the edges are lined with thin faintly glowing vines that swirl and twine. He’s never worn something so extravagant in his life and feels a bit self-conscious as he looks at the man beside him. Vega’s wearing a suit of similar design but the reddish ensemble seems to pulse with his natural glow as though it were tailored into his skin. He looks up at Fredrik equally as tense.

“Oh you look simply exemplary!” Terabellum gushes behind them.

They turn stiffly to face her, Fredrik rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Are you sure you want us to walk around the market in these? How many people are really looking for fancy suits around here?”

“Nonsense, you’re both fabulous models!” She squeals gently pushing them along, “And you’d be surprised how many lavish parties nobles go through. Now, no more questions! Get out there and have fun!”

“Ah but not too much fun for you, brother.” Terabellum grasps Vega’s arm with a placid smile, “Try not to stress that leg until I finish your outfit, okay?” She sends them off with a cheerful wave and they set out into the bustling market. 

A cacophony of sounds hit them as they weave through the crowd; merchants holler over tinkering craftsmen and the sea of people buzzing about. Even with Fredrik’s height it is difficult to navigate through the populace but the heat of a roaring furnace guides him to his destination.  
Smoke billows high from the sputtering, ramshackle contraption. Although it looks hastily thrown together with metal scraps the coals within burn lively, a white hot perfect for armour smithing. Fredrik and Vega step into the stall, spotting a lone Charr with her back turned. The black trench coat hugs her slim figure and contrasts with the metal belts strapped on her shoulders. Her right arm is unsleeved, hammering away on a metal sheet, the muscles rippling under her thin dark brown fur. Her thick tail sways rhythmically to the clash of her hammer and her ears perk up at the sound of their footsteps.

“Make it snappy, I haven’t got all day.” She grumbles without facing them.

Fredrik tilts his head and stalks closer to the tinkering Charr until he’s looking down at the cascade of black hair obscuring her face.  
“By Bear’s claws! Zela, is that you?”

She lifts her face, her hair sweeps out of her pastel green eyes and a toothy grin plasters on her face.  
“Fredrik! Burn me, look at you!” Zela drops her tools on the anvil and throws a playful punch to his arm, “What are you wearing? It’s so froufrou. Too good for moots, are you? Balls and masquerades more your thing now?”

“Ha! Never!” He barks, looping an arm around her neck, “You know nothing beats Norn ale! Shouldn’t you be on the floor of a lodge, you lousy drunk?”

“Some of us have shops to run,” she drawls, “and the taverns don’t open until sundown.”

They share a laugh and Fredrik beckons Vega standing stoic in front of the stall. “Come meet my moot mate, Zela! We used to brawl together.”

“Not that we’d remember, we always drank too much.” The Charr woman snickers under him.

“A pleasure.” Vega greets blandly.

“This is Vega. Despite his looks he is a ferocious keg tapper.” Fredrik boasts with a puffed chest as though it was his own achievement, “We’re hunting down a beast.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Zela snorts twitching her pink nose, “Did you say hunt? Has the baby bird finally flown from his nest? Oh I couldn't be prouder!” She brings a claw to her eye wiping an imaginary tear.

“Last but certainly not least—my legend will be greater than all of yours, you’ll see.” He lets her go with a huff.

“Speaking of,” She dusts herself off, “How are your brothers doing? I haven't seen them in ages.”

“Oh you know,” Fredrik rolls his eyes waving his hand around, “off somewhere doing heroic deeds I’m sure.”

“Alright, alright.” She chuckles placing her hands out placatingly, “I suppose you're here for some gear. What are you hunting anyway?”

“Something that can do this.” He unclips his greatsword from his back and presents the damaged blade for her to inspect. The edges are indented with teeth marks and the flat side is marred with deep grooves and scratches, warping the decorative Norn markings engraved on it. It looks about ready to snap in two.

“Smodur’s eye!” Zela slides her hands over the sword, “I better get you the good stuff, don't want you losing a limb out there.”  
She moves to grab the shovel leaning on her workbench and proceeds to add more fuel into the furnace, stoking the flames to roaring heights.  
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll have your armour ready. I’ll even put a little Norn flare to it, no extra charge.”

“You’re the best, Zela.” Fredrik bats his eyes at her as she shoos them out of her shop with a wave of her claw.

“I know I am.” She calls over her shoulder, “Get out of here and don't come back until you get a new sword!”

Fredrik leaves with a chipper bounce to his step and a goofy grin as Vega walks quietly beside him.  
“I knew she went apprenticing but to think we would meet her here! It’s nice seeing old friends.” He chirps, “She’s right though, we need weapons. Who was Tera talking about? This smithy at the Priory?”

“An old friend.” Vega replies looking up at the Norn whose eyes twinkle with excitement. He can’t say he shares the sentiment.

As they approach the swirling purple vortex of the Asuran gate he feels apprehension creep into his legs, each step closer he wants to take two steps back. Before they step through Vega hesistants, eyes downcast.

“I am not certain he will see me. We left on...bad terms.”

Fredrik looks down at the despondent man and places a hand on his shoulder. “Friends fight all the time and time heals all wounds.”

He mulls over the Norn’s words. _If only it were that simple._ Vega breathes in deep and shakes away his nerves. What he feels matters little in this situation—the man they seek has what they need and that’s the simple truth. He steadies himself and nods resolutely as they step into the gate.

 

The brisk icy winds prickle their skin as they enter Lornar’s Pass. The portal has taken them to the top of a snowy mountain range, its height paints a desolate white on the landscape below. To their left a set of wooden stairs scale up the highest peak leading into the Durmand Priory, an immense structure carved straight into the mountain.

They walk apace through the hall; its high ceiling bathed in warm yellow light from the globes of molten stone strung above in spherical cages. At the end of the hallway stands a shining beam of marigold that pierces the mountaintop and descends into a pit in the centre of the room with a myriad of stone tablets that spiral and intertwine like clockwork around the beam. Fredrik stops to stare in awe at the magnificent centrepiece while Vega’s gaze shifts to the muffled buzzing beneath the staircase by the far wall.

Descending to the lower floors they are hit with a crescendo of noise; priory agents rush about carrying supplies and yelling orders over one another in organised chaos. Vega stands bewildered on the stairs, he’s never seen the Order in such a frenzy and he scans the crowd hoping to spot the person they came to see. His ears pick up a familiar commanding voice and he swivels his neck to the source as the masses part the way for a dark blue Sylvari.

His steps are long and graceful, flocks of scholars move along with him barraging him with questions and despite the deep scowl on his angular face he answers each with insight and finality. Fuchsia streaks glow through his indigo mohawk-like ferns on his head like a beacon in the dim light. The blue-white coat wraps tight around his broad chest, billowing at his legs as the man passes by the stairs. He stops his stride, magenta eyes locked unblinking on Vega.

“Tekotes.” He greets, the man squints critically before turning to his fellow members.

“Preparations are on schedule. Recheck inventory while I deal with our...guests.” The people beside him nod dispersing into the crowd as Tekotes gives him a glance and ducks into the library built into the cylindrical room in the middle.

Vega weaves quickly through the crowd, Fredrik following behind with hushed apologises as he squeezes his larger frame through. They filter through an aisle of tomes as Tekotes stands tall with his arms crossed waiting expectantly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, _bounty hunter?_ ” Tekotes spits out the term like it’s an insult, eyes narrowed on Vega, “I thought you were off galavanting in the snow with wild animals.”

Vega’s pinned by his gaze, he feels slight tremors but keeps his face calm. “You look well, the uniform suits you.” He replies cordially, “I have never seen the headquarters quite so lively.”

Tekotes rolls his eyes, “Yes, if you want to call salvaging the remains of Lion’s Arch ‘lively’ then it’s been an absolute joy-ride.” His sharp features turn away, “A lot has changed since you left.”

“Not you it would seem,” Vega quips, “still the dutiful scholar.”

“Magister now, actually.” Tekotes tilts his chin up, “We lost a great many in the assault against Zhaitan, you should remember—you were there.”

The words echo and send chills down Vega’s spine, he grasps his right arm as the memories flood back. Tekotes peers down, “Those of us who were left took up the mantle. Perhaps you were too busy chasing imaginary beasts to recall.”

His face falls, composure crumbling then and there. He’s never known Tekotes to mince his words but the blunt truth of it stirs a hollowness in his core and any words he could muster die in his throat. His eyes crease morosely up at the scowling Sylvari and it hurts him all the more; he knows that there will never be words for what he did.

“Well the past is in the past as they say.” Tekotes twirls his wrist idly, expression growing bored, “Have you just come to reminisce or did you want something from me?”

“Tekotes was it?” Fredrik voice cuts through the tension, “I’m Fredrik. Tera told me you were a master blacksmith, a true artisan of the forge.”

As though he’s only just noticed the seven foot tall Norn in the room, Tekotes looks up at him. “Tera? I should have known that woman sent you. No tailor in Tyria would make outfits like yours.” Vega isn’t sure if he meant that in a good way or not but Fredrik remains unfazed, chuckling lightly as Tekotes continues, “It’s true I do dabble in it. I don’t normally sell my weapons, what do you need them for?”

“We’re tracking down a pair of beasts.” Fredrik replies, eliciting a haughty bark of laughter from Tekotes.

“Why does that not surprise me?” The look he sends Vega is scathing. Gulping the lump in his throat he remembers Terabellum’s advice.

“What use is knowledge if it is not used?” He proposes, “Surely you did not create them to collect dust in storage.”

Tekotes clicks his tongue, looking away from him in consideration and Vega smirks slightly knowing he’s persuaded him. Tekotes looks back at him with softer but serious eyes, “Why should I help you? Last time it didn't go so well.”

He looks into Tekotes’ magenta eyes and sees a past he desperately wants to forget. But this time is different.  
“These beasts aren’t a figment of my mind,” he asserts, “and this is not about me.”

“I hired Vega to track these beasts.” Fredrik steps in, “I assure you they’re quite real. We’ve seen and fought them! I have it all here in my journal.”

Fredrik rummages through his satchel and hands him the worn-leather book. Tekotes flips through it, scanning the pages as though the indecipherable handwriting and scribbled lines made perfect sense. “Impressive documentation. It would be a nice addition to the archives.”

Fredrik puffs at the compliment, nudging his elbow into Vega’s side who shakes his head. Tekotes stops on the two-page sketch of the beast and furrows his brows, eyes calculating, “This looks familiar.”

Tekotes snaps the book shut, carrying it with him as he walks briskly to another section of the library. The books here look much older and he takes out a particularly hefty tome.  
“I was digging through some newly acquired ancient texts,” he starts flicking through the dusty pages, “I believe there was a diagram of an animal like this one—ah yes, here it is.”

Spreading open the book there is a sketch; the intricate lines paint the beast with lifelike accuracy and they’re left staring at the powerful striped animal poised regal on the page. The words scrawled on the bottom are in a dead language but Tekotes supplies the translation.

“Panthera Tigris. Commonly known as tiger.”

“A tiger…” Vega breathes out, piercing yellow eyes flash to the forefront of his mind and the name brings a twitch to his arm.

“Those look like them alright.” Fredrik studies the image, hand scratching at his beard.

Tekotes curls a finger to his pointed chin contemplatively, “One has never been sighted in Tyria but you say you’re hunting two? Fascinating.” He notes the damaged blade on the Norn’s back, “In exchange for a completed journal I’ll provide you with a new sword.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Fredrik shakes his head excitedly, a gleeful twinkle in his eye at the prospect of having his story immortalised in the Order’s archives.

Tekotes looks down at Vega, speaking in a curt, impassive tone.  
“For old time’s sake I’ll spare one for you as well.”

The Magister marches briskly out of the library, following the flow of the crowd. They hurry to catch up, Vega looking up at the goofy grin plastered on the Norn’s face.  
“Do you think it’s weird to write about being part of a collection? It doesn’t seem like I should know it’s going to be part of a collection.” There’s a jovial bounce to his step and Vega feels a little lighter watching the Norn’s elated rambling.

They follow Tekotes into another room with other researchers; workbenches used to craft all manner of interesting things are set in rows, gizmos and gadgets stacked on every desk and the skeleton of an aquatic creature is left on display with a light source emanating from the square table. The scholars greet the blue Sylvari as he walks past through a door by the back leading into a sparse room with its own workstation and storage closet on one side and a training dummy on the other. They stand idly as Tekotes scours through the closet.

“They let you have your own testing room?” Vega traces the scorch marks on the wall, no doubt made from tinkering with dangerous materials.

“I had them clear it out, perks with the rank.” Tekotes’ voice echos from inside, “I assume you still use a bow.” He emerges with a long wooden crate, setting it down gently to unclasp the locks on its side, “Do I want to know how you broke it?”

“A giant moa shattered it.”

Pausing in his ministrations he gives Vega a deadpan stare and then shrugs, “Well venturing with you was anything but boring.”

Vega breaks into a small smile. He does miss those days.

With a click, Tekotes lifts the lid and takes out a hefty looking bow; the curved limb is thick, a gleaming onyx hue with a peculiar bar attachment that separates the grip. He hands the bow to Vega and to his surprise he can lift it comfortably.

“It’s forged with enchanted steel: lightweight, durable. I think you’ll find the arcane crystals most handy.” The Magister explains, drawing attention to the two floating red jewels rigged on either end of the bowstring. Without warning he strikes the bow, the crystals glow intensifies and the limb thrums, lightning encapsulates the crescent bathing Vega’s astounded face in a crimson tinge. The current rides along Tekotes’ arm and disperses harmlessly, he waves the insulated glove smirking at Vega’s dumbfounded face.

“There are sigils on the grip you see,” Vega releases his hold and sure enough the red markings on the grip blend back into the metal along with the crystals that revert to their passive state, “any impact activates an electric charge, a deterrent for close combat. The voltage should stun enough for you to gain some distance.”

He watches Tekotes’ broad back in wonderment as he strides into the storage room. Somehow the bow’s size and weight are very much what he’s accustomed to and its features addressed glaring weaknesses in his repertoire; he can’t help but think the Sylvari made this bow just for him and he clutches the weapon firmly.

What Tekotes brings out next is not in a box. He places it down in front of them with a heavy thud, giving them an inkling of its true weight.  
“I just finished crafting this from a fractal relic.”

It looks more like a chunk of metal than any conventional sword; glowing purple symbols are etched onto a thin slate of steel in the centre, a mystical alloy wraps around the piece giving off wisps as though it were perpetually chilled, the edges jagged and polished sharp. Most intriguing is that the gleaming blade is not attached to the hilt, instead a small cubic device thrums quietly in between, ribbons of light spring from it connecting the two with astounding rigidness.

Fredrik grabs the hilt and tugs hard expecting the greatsword to be heavy but his eyes blow comically wide as he swings the blade in one hand like a baton. He looks back and forth between the sword and the blue Sylvari, excited noises that are almost words spill out from his mouth.

“Yes, materials from the Mists have always had unusual properties, in this case the forged metal became practically weightless.” Tekotes waves off his babbling directing his gaze to the small cube in the centre, “The stabilizing matrix keeps it all in place but if you press here...” He lays a hand on the knob in the middle of the hilt, revealing a glowing sigil that comes to life at the touch, the cube spins rapidly and the strips holding the metal loosens making it seem as though the blade is floating on its own.

Fredrik gives the man a questioning look. “A pretty display but what purpose does it serve?”

“The matrix also acts as a tether for long range attacks.” Tekotes replies vaguely gesturing to the training dummy on the opposite side of the room.

It takes a moment for his words to process in Fredrik’s mind then his face splits into a huge grin and he unleashes the blade in a mighty arc, launching it from the hilt like a deadly whip. The metal cleaves the dummy in two and retracts back to the hilt in one smooth motion. With unbridled excitement Fredrik practices a few more swings with the greatsword as though he were a child being handed a brand new toy.

As Fredrik busies himself, Vega is left standing beside Tekotes, the tension weighs down on his shoulders as the seconds go by. He looks up at the blue Magister’s sharp features feels the emptiness resurface— he misses him and he misses their friendship. Reaching for the man’s arm, his voice comes out soft.

“Tekotes—” 

“Do not mistake my civility for forgiveness, Vega.” The blue Sylvari stands stock still, arms curled behind his back, his stoic face hardened facing forward as he speaks.

Vega drops his arm back to his side, looking away. He was expecting this but to hear it said hurt more than he imagined. He breathes in a shaky breath and starts over.  
“I never meant to hurt you, Tekotes. I did what I thought was right. I know now that I was wrong and I am truly sorry.”

A few agonising moments pass and the Magister’s rigid shoulders slump just a little. “I understand why you did it.” Tekotes sighs, glancing down at Vega’s somber face, “I know how strong the call can be, the Pact was founded on it.”

His magenta eyes grow a shade darker as his scowl deepens, “But we were at war,” his voice strains, “and you abandoned us.”

Vega eyes widen a fraction and he nods slowly, a bittersweet ache swells within him. The fact that the man was even talking to him was more than he’d hoped for when he came, but the thought of leaving things this way—that this may be the last time Tekotes would be willing to see him leaves an acrid taste in his mouth and he’s never wanted a drink more in his life. The silence between them is deafening and Vega can hear himself breathe, his throat suddenly too dry under Tekotes’ intensity. A knock on the door jolts him, they turn their heads and see a Priory scholar walk into the room.

“Pardon the intrusion, Magister.”

“Speak.”

“The vines have spread further than predicted, the other leaders are convening to devise alternative caravan routes.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

The click of her heels fades in the distance, Tekotes lets out a curse under his breath bringing a hand up to press at his temple. Vega stands in a daze. A part of him wants to help, ask about the vines and talk through the problem. The other just wants to disappear.

Fredrik bounds over to them, his arms burning from the workout.  
“A marvelous blade! Those tigers should be quaking in their fur.”

“Not that this hasn’t been a pleasure but I have things to do.” Tekotes composes himself, “I’ll see you both out.”

They reach the top of the stairwell where the floating tomes bathe the now darkened hall in brilliant orange light. The evening sky twinkles at the end of the hallway and they say their farewells by the central lightbeam.

“Thank you, Tekotes. May the Spirits watch over you.” Fredrik extends his hand and the Magister shakes it amicably.

“I expect a finished journal soon.”

"You got it!" The Norn replies with a thumbs up.

Vega looks at the Sylvari resigned. The bow weighs comfortingly on his back and he will cherish it as a final parting gift. His smile is tinged with sadness.  
“Take care of yourself, old friend.”

As they turn and start their trek back to Lion’s Arch, Tekotes stops him with a gloved hand on his shoulder.  
“It’s not too late, you know,” the tone of it confuses Fredrik but Vega understands all too clear, “the Commander will be at Concordia in a few days. She’ll need your help.”

A seething rage overcomes him and Vega shakes the man’s grip on him. His glow burns red as he glares into Tekotes’ magenta eyes and hisses.  
“She has _never_ needed me.”

He storms off, boots clacking on the smooth stone pavement as they exit the Durmand Priory and head back towards the Asura Gate below. Fredrik keeps up with his pace, staring indeterminately down at him.  
“Do you want to talk about it?” He starts with a gentle voice.

“What I want is a drink.” Vega glowers, his temper subsiding almost immediately once they reach the portal. He grips his right arm hard forcing the tremors to stop.

Fredrik takes note of the movement but decides not to pry for the time being. Instead he pats the man on the back and bellows,

“A splendid idea! I’ll ask Zela where the best taverns are, we’ll make a night out of it! I bet she has some great stories to tell. This one time...”

Vega listens to the Norn’s tale absently as they walk back to Lion’s Arch, hoping the night brings a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew it was tigers all along? Everyone? Hahaha...  
> If you were curious, the weapon designs I envisioned were the Inquest Shortbow and the Fractal Greatsword.


	5. On the Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It sure has been an age huh? I'm so sorry it took so long but I won't make excuses.  
> I wanted to try a little more light-hearted tone to the chapter, we'll see if I managed to pull it off, hey?
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3

Sunlight breaches the inn’s windowpane, caressing the brown-red leaves atop Vega’s head. The room is threadbare: consisting of two beds, a desk between them and a single window overhead. Every inn is much the same while reconstruction of the city is underway and it suits their needs just fine. An incessant tapping brings him out from his slumber and he rolls to his feet sluggishly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Judging from the position of the sun he deduces it must already be around noon. Stepping by the window, he inspects the dark silhouette knocking on the glass. 

A plump grey pigeon sits on the other side, he stares for a moment unsure if either of its monocular eyes are staring back. Noticing the small pouch strapped on its chest, he flips open the window letting the bird fly in. It lands clumsily on top of the desk, wiggling to orientate itself and presents the bag to him. Vega unclasps the flap, taking out the letter inside. Tracing the neat cursive with his finger he reads:

 

_Dear brother Vega,_

_How’s your leg treating you? Zela told me you had a crazy night out the other day, invite me next time! But not anytime soon. Whatever you’ve been doing caught a lot of attention, I’m getting so many orders! I knew getting you two to wear my suits would work like a charm. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve finished your gear. Come by the shop and prepare to be dazzled._

_— Terabellum_

 

As sleep ebbs away, he starts recollecting the past few days. After their visit to the Durmand Priory, they met with Zela at the Crow’s Nest where the Charr began an impromptu drinking tournament at the behest of the excitable barkeeper who happily provided a truly tempting prize; a highly sought after bottle of Barrel-Aged Ascalonian Amber. The taste of it still lingers in his throat; the deceptive copper colour belied its strong flavours of fruits, oak, and a mild bitterness. When the sun came up and the three of them had their fill of the powerful Foefire brew, Fredrik left with Zela to the forge eager to examine his new armour, leaving Vega to his own devices. 

He spent the rest of the time perusing the markets restocking provisions, acquiring a quiver, arrows and a new set of knives after which he made his way through various inns and taverns trying to glean information on the tigers’ whereabouts. Eventually an off-duty Lionguard informed him that the beasts had been spotted in Southsun Cove as predicted and if he heads to Camp Lion Point the commanding officer there would know more. After that it gets fuzzy, the last thing Vega remembers is feeling an overwhelming fatigue, barely managing to return to their room and collapsing on his bed. 

Vega stifles a yawn. He has always been a light sleeper, never resting for more than a couple hours at a time and he wonders what brought on this near catatonic state. He looks down to probe his leg; the wound is completely healed, the flesh oddly smooth, hardened bark did not grow over it and it was as though there was never an injury to begin with. Perhaps Terabellum’s serum worked too well and his body burnt out in the process.

Folding the letter he places it on the desk, noticing the pigeon still perched innocently on the tabletop. He lifts the bird to the windowsill coaxing it to leave but it swivels around cooing at him sweetly, its gaze fixed on the baguette (that the baker insisted on gifting him for some reason although her touch did linger a tad longer than what he would would consider professional) sticking out of his satchel on the floor. He scoffs, breaking off a large piece of the bread and lobbing it into its open beak. The pigeon catches the bit mid-flight, an impressive feat for one so rotund, leaping out of the window and flapping into the distance. He watches the bird on its merry way before shutting the window, packing his things and heading downstairs.

Amidst the bustling hall filled with people during lunch rush he spots Fredrik sitting on a bar stool, chatting exuberantly with the proprietor and tucking into a plate of assorted meats. As he gets closer, the Norn greets him smiling with cheeks full of food.

“Well nice of you to join us, sleeping beauty!” He laughs, swallowing a chunky mouthful, “I tried to wake you this morning but you were out like a light.” 

The first thing Vega notices is the Norn’s new armour; the metal wraps snug on his broad form, it shines freshly polished, intricate strips of purple weave through the chest plate all the way to his arms in a similar pattern to his tattoos. The second thing is Fredrik’s smug face, grinning ear to ear at him.

“You like it? I have to say, Zela’s really outdone herself with this one.”  
Fredrik sits up a little straighter, puffing out his chest and winking at the woman behind the bar who rolls her eyes bemused. “She also wanted me to give this to you as a parting gift.” He pulls out a small badge from his pocket and flashes it in front of Vega. In bold letters the words ‘Kegmaster’s Champion’ are engraved lovingly in the centre. Vega scoffs at the piece but takes it anyway. The Norn looks down at Vega’s overstuffed bag with a raised brow,

“You didn’t buy all that did you?”

“The merchants were...generous.” Vega replies voice trailing off causing the Norn to chortle even more,

“Are you sure you want another outfit? This one seems to be working out for you.” He pats the smaller man, lifting his plate over his mouth and sliding the rest down his gullet, eyes crinkling cheekily as Vega gives him a bewildered look (indicated by a slight twitch of his brow, Fredrik’s gotten pretty good at reading the stone-faced Sylvari if he does say so himself) “I take it we’re leaving now?”

“Terabellum called me to the shop,” he nods, “and I have a lead.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Fredrik belches, getting out of his seat, “Let’s go hunt some tigers.”

 

They arrive at the tailoring stall, taking the back entrance to avoid the sizable crowd forming out front only to come across another Sylvari. Black ferns stem from the back of her head and grow over the top cascading to the left side of her pale face, the bark there a darker hardened shade of teal than the rest of her. A white silk shirt billows loosely on her small frame, tucked neatly into her black pants. The right pant leg is cut off at the thigh to accommodate her missing limb, a metal cage like prosthetic molded into a leg shape is clipped on tight where the stump begins. Their arrival startles her, eyes blown wide as she yelps jostling the ridiculously tall stack of boxes in her arms.

“You must be Fredrik and the Valiant.” She greets distractedly, stepping side-to-side to stabilize the load. Once she’s rebalanced, the woman turns to face them, “I’m Lani. It’s an honour to meet y—oh! ” In her haste the boxes go flying from her grasp. 

Fredrik steps forward, seizing them before their contents spill save for the box on the very top that slides smoothly over his shoulder. It sails towards Vega who catches it with a grunt, the baguette sticking precariously out of his bag shakes loose. Before it hits the ground, a swift pattering kites through the dirt, with beak wide open the plump grey pigeon saves the bread, the impact bouncing it a couple steps.

“Peyo! You give that back!” Lani scolds the oblivious bird as it carries its prize to the other room. Fredrik’s shoulders shake from trying not to laugh lest he drop the boxes in his hands and Vega stands stunned, impressed once again by the round bird's agility. 

Lani turns back to them with a nervous chuckle, “I’m so sorry about all this, she doesn’t listen to anyone besides Tera. I’ll take those.” They deposit the boxes back to the stack which Lani lifts with ease and places down by the shelves with a heavy thud. 

Dusting off her hands, she scratches her ferns owlishly, “Give me a sword or an axe and I’ll cut through anything but hand me some fabrics and I’m a right mess.”

“Well I think you’ve been a tremendous help, dearheart.” Terabellum saunters in, sliding her arm around Lani’s waist, “Having my own personal Lionguard does wonders for shop security,” she presses a tender kiss on Lani’s forehead, “and the company’s not bad either.” The smaller woman’s green glow flares bright at that. 

“Ah! Here are my two stars!” She squeals, “I’ve been receiving order after order for the ‘Kegmaster’ suit.” She emphasises the term with air quotations, “Apparently wearing it is supposed to boost your drinking spirit and grant you luck with the ladies! You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Resting her hands on her hips she looks up at the two with a devilish grin.

“You mentioned my gear in your letter.” Vega reminds the excitable woman.

“Alright, straight to business then.” Terabellum rubs her hands together staring pointed at his leg, “But before that…” She bends down and pulls up his pant leg revealing the smooth birch where the wound used to be, “Excellent! Looks as good as new.” 

Despite her elated tone the look she gives him is nothing but serious, “Quite frankly, brother, I could’ve finished this a lot sooner but I wanted to make sure you were in tip-top shape before you run off on another adventure.” If he didn’t just receive information on the tigers, he would have reproached her for taking up valuable time but when he looks into her eyes he finds nothing to say. She’s looking out for his well-being and Vega can’t fault her for that so he stands quietly under her scrutiny.

“Amazing…” Lani kneels next to her, “and you said there was a hole here before? It doesn’t even have bark grown over.” She paws self-consciously at the darker side of her face, Terabellum takes her hand in hers gently looking her in the eye.

“I would never risk using my plant grower solution on people but Vega insisted. It’s a miracle that it worked so well.”

“Just the kind of risk taking I’d expect from a Valiant.” Lani looks up at Vega with an admirable twinkle in her eyes, standing and nodding with approval. 

“Now that that’s settled,“ Terabellum straightens, walking towards a space separated by a sheet, “right this way, brother. I’m sure it’ll impress you!” 

Vega follows her to the makeshift room, as the curtains fall shut Fredrik is left with the small Sylvari woman staring earnestly at him.

“Are you assisting the Valiant on his Wyld Hunt?” She asks with barely contained excitement.

“Just the opposite,” Fredrik replies crossing his arms, “he’s helping me on a hunt.” Her face falls slightly at that and he takes the opportunity to pry.

“I heard someone else call him that. Valiant. Is it some sort of title?”

“It’s what we call someone who has been blessed with the Mother’s call. The chosen few tasked to fulfill a great deed in her honour.” Lani informs him as she looks back towards the curtain, “I have nothing but respect for them.”

Fredrik considers her words and only grows more curious. Is this ‘call’ why his enigmatic tracker decided to come with him and not take proper payment? He assumed the thrill of chasing new prey had spurred the bounty hunter on but perhaps Vega’s motivations were more mysterious than he thought.

“What sort of ‘great deed’ is it?” He inquires further.

“I don’t know what his Wyld Hunt is, I just know that he has one from our connection to the Dream of Dreams.” Lani replies with a shrug, “They have a different aura about them, just being near is like feeling the whip of a passing arrow.” Fredrik raises his brow prompting her to continue, “They can’t stop thinking about what must be done. I hear that the call gnaws at you and climbs your soul like a parasitic vine. That kind of obsession is hard not to feel.”

“It sounds unpleasant.” Fredrik comments, trying to wrap his head around how the woman picked up all that from just a feeling and not quite understanding the reverence she has for a person she has never met. 

“It just shows how important the task must be!” The admiration glistening over her eyes is blinding, “The rest of us can only hope to be so needed.” She sighs, “Whatever it is you’re doing, it has to be related. Valiants never stray from their path.”

Before he can ask her to clarify, their chat is cut short and the sheets flap open. At first glance Vega’s gear looks the same albeit with a newer polish but when he gets closer Fredrik can see the individual parts are made of shimmering brown leaves almost identical to the leaves making up his hair twining around his body. Much like the flowery suit, the leaves pulse faintly red where the braided designs weave.

“Gaze upon it and be amazed!” Terabellum steps from behind Vega with a twirl.

“It looks good,” Fredrik starts, placing a hand under his chin, “but how are a bunch of leaves better than sturdy leather?”

“Well for one thing, darling, it’s sturdier than leather.” She retorts, unfazed by his skepticism, “This is Sylvari armour, alchemically grown! It’s not so easily damaged I assure you.” Her words carry the confidence of a seasoned crafter and she smiles proudly at her work, “It’s light and streamlined, traversing water shouldn’t give you anymore trouble.”

“Thank you, Terabellum.” Vega flinches slightly under her gaze, being reminded of his wound felt humbling. 

The pieces of armour rest comfortably on his skin, each part carefully clipped into the grooves of his bark as if he had grown the leaves himself. Even the slightest movement felt seamless and natural, a startling amount of freedom compared to his previous coat and he’s eager to put it to use.

“You’re very welcome, brother.” She beams at him, “I just hope when you visit next time you won’t bleed all over my nice dirt floor!”

“Where are you headed next, Valiant?” Lani asks, stepping to stand beside Terabellum.

“Southsun Cove.” He replies curtly not paying too much attention to the keen woman and instead shifting his gaze to Fredrik, “The tigers have been spotted near Camp Lion Point. The Lionguard patrolling there may know more.” 

“Oh, I know the group rostered there!” Lani speaks up thrilled to contribute, “Captain Liella should be on duty, she’s an observant one. If something’s going on at the camp she would know.” 

“Then we’d best be off.” Fredrik rolls his shoulders, “Those beasts are vicious. Having them around a camp full of people can’t be good.”

“I would march over there with you but I’m under house arrest until my leg grows back.” Lani looks glumly at her missing limb until Terabellum grasps her cheeks firmly with both hands and presses their foreheads together.

“Don’t make it sound like you haven’t been having a blast with me, dear. I’ll make a worthy shop assistant out of you yet!” She nuzzles into her face until she wrestles a giggle out of Lani then turns to address them.

“Treesong go with you both.” Terabellum smiles up at Fredrik then brings Vega into a tight hug, “Stay safe.” He returns the gesture as best he can in her vice grip.

“Right, well a shop can’t run itself!” She pulls away, clapping her hands together in an orderly fashion, “Lani-dearest, I’ll need you to fetch more fabrics while I pick the garden. Peyo, sweetie! Come to mommy! We have a lot of letters to send!”

The pigeon comes waddling in, far more sluggish than before. With a belly full of bread it chirps happily as it approaches the group. Fredrik bursts into laughter at the sight, scooping up the chubby bird,  
“The bread bandit returns unabashed I see! How bold!”  
Peyo squawks indignantly at him, legs dangling in the air. He paws at its doughy body, cooing gleefully, “More of a pillow than a delivery bird, aren’t you?”

That seems to be the last straw, Peyo heaves up wings flapping hard until it breaks free of his grasp and slams its head into Fredrik’s, twisting away and landing into Terabellum’s shoulder. 

She covers the birds ears in mock offense, “Such slanderous words! I won’t have it! Not in my shop! Out with the lot of you! Shoo!” She wails dramatically and with a wink she strolls back to the other room, leaving Lani to escort them out.

“Best of luck on your travels.” Lani straightens to salute them, waiting until their figures blend into the crowd before heading back inside.

 

They enter the Asura Gate into Southsun Cove, the salty, acrid air whips their face as they step onto the wet soil. The sand gives off a pinkish tint, contrasting with the crystal blue water that dips and pools from fissures torn throughout the land. Geysers burst from cavernous rocky formations, spewing steam from their coral-like tubes causing the air to be swelteringly humid despite being surrounded by the sea. Fauna and flora found only on this island make it ripe for exploration but their destination lies on the far north where the island is more submerged and the caves are more jagged and treacherous.

Fredrik’s boots squelch deep into the sand and Vega slows his pace to walk alongside the struggling Norn.  
“You know I’ve heard a lot of stories back home about this place.” Fredrik starts between breathes, “None of them were very pleasant.”

“What do you mean?” Vega’s ears perk. If there were any dangers the Norn knew about that they could prepare for, it would be worth a listen.

“It was like the island was cursed they said,” Fredrik wipes a drop of sweat trickling down his face, unaccustomed to this kind of heat, “They sought refuge here after the Molten Alliance drove them out of their homes and under the Consortium they were forced into labour work.” As they hit rockier ground, Fredrik takes longer, more comfortable strides, “But we Norn are a hardy folk, doing a bit of work wasn’t much trouble. It was the trickery that angered most, they were under contract and weren’t legally allowed to leave. The home they sought to build became their very own prison.”

Vega nods along to the tale. He wasn’t anywhere near where Scarlet’s forces attacked, only hearing about the madwoman’s assault on Lion’s Arch after she had been dealt with and her wretched Breachmaker split the city in two. Even then he only heard from the tidbits Norns would let slip after too many ales, not a popular subject to bring up at a moot. 

“Then the local wildlife began attacking them, day after day. The Karka were especially ruthless.” Fredrik continues, “Everyone thought the island was condemning them. There were riots and the Lionguard intervened, siding with the Consortium to protect the peace. Fortunately, the curse also befell the Consortium, a boat carrying all their contracts suddenly exploded and they were finally allowed off the island.”

“A series of unfortunate events.” Vega concludes. Sadly, nothing useful could be gleaned from it. The Karka had long been cleared to near extinction by the Lionguard and were no longer much of a threat. Whatever had caused the animals to stir had also been dealt with judging by the calm of the forts they passed by.

They arrive at Southsun Shoals, the north of the island that takes the brunt of the high tides washing in from the Sea of Sorrows. There is scarcely any large patches of land, most of its expanse is swallowed by shallow sea. The fissures here are especially dangerous, the force of expulsion powerful enough to toss boulders into the air and the odd person caught unaware. To Fredrik’s dismay their boots get increasingly waterlogged as they head for the small settlement next to a mountainous cavern. A few tents are set up along with piles of crates stacked neatly around the camp. Lionguard stand by the shore, some carrying supplies as one particular guard barks orders across the settlement. Vega walks briskly up to the commanding woman.

“Are you Lionguard Captain Liella?” 

“That would be me!” She whirls around to face him, sounding more chipper than he would have thought for a person in charge of such an isolated area. Her uniform and hat obscure most of her features but the wide smile on her pink face is distinctly Sylvari.

“Bear’s breath!” Fredrik exclaims, stomping towards them, “How you stand having soggy feet all the time is beyond me!” To prove his point he rips off his boot and pours the offending liquid sloshing onto the sand. She laughs heartily at him as he does the same for his other boot.

“The Slayer is as funny as he is mighty! Of course it’s wet! This used to be where we docked ships.” She places a hand on her hips in a relaxed pose, “Life is tough out here but we get by. But I don’t have to tell you that though do I?” The captain extends an arm to the Norn earnestly, “What brings you here so far from your post?”

“Slayer?” Vega turns back to Fredrik who gives him an equally confused look. 

Something clicks in the Norn’s mind and he gives the woman a polite smile, “I think you have me mistaken for my brother. I’m Fredrik, untitled.”  
His smile is somewhat forced, tone laced with exasperation as though he’s had to deal with this kind of thing many times before.

“My apologies then.” Liella lowers her hand, “Do you need something?”

“We are tracking a pair of tigers.” Vega iterates, “Huge felines with striped orange fur.”

“Oh good,” Liella lets out a sigh of relief, “we could use your help. I was worried that we’d have to hunt the creatures down on our own.”

“So you’ve seen them?” Fredrik asks, readying his journal to take down her testimony.

“I haven’t seen them in person, thankfully! But their tracks are clear enough, as are the screams of their victims.”

His pen hand stills and gives her a grave look, “Did you say victims?”

“We’ve lost two of our number to the creatures so far.” The captain nods grimly, “They attack in the night and drag the bodies away. I’d rather not dwell much on why.”

Vega scowl deepens as he assesses the situation. Given how overwhelmingly strong the tigers had been in their battle and their blatant lack of fear attacking the two of them, it was no surprise that the beasts had managed to take a few people when they themselves had barely escaped with their lives. 

“Do you know where they are coming from?” He inquires.

“The attacks always come from the west along the shore.”

Vega gives a quick nod and starts walking towards the beach. Fredrik places a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Thank you. We’ll handle things from here.” He assures her then quickly runs to Vega’s position where the man has already begun scanning the wet sand for tracks.

Just as Liella said, the tracks are easy enough to spot; the paw prints sink deep in the soft pliable ground leading further west. The tracks take them along the shoreline stopping at a small body of water connecting to the ocean. The prints do not resurface on the other side, leading Vega to believe the tigers must have swam along the stream trickling inland. He tells Fredrik as much and after a whiny groan from the Norn they trudge deeper into the water. 

Vega skims the surface with the finesse of a skelk; his armour bends with the ebb and flow of the current, propelling him swiftly with minimal resistance. The same could not be said about Fredrik’s approach which is more of a forceful sprint through the water than conventional swimming (given his height and the weight of his armour keeping him firmly planted to the sandy bed) but despite his dissatisfied look the Norn keeps pace as they venture further in. 

They reach a deeper part of the stream where Fredrik has to bob to keep afloat. His thrashing undulates the water, stirring the drake basking languidly by the bank. Before things get too out of hand, Vega whirls around, grabbing the flailing man’s arm, urging him to keep still as he shrouds them in stealth. They float along the current, kicking ever so slightly to keep from sinking and watch the reptiles cautiously. It would seem the creatures are not agitated enough to give chase, more content to lap up the sun’s rays. They slink by with no trouble and soon the drakes are nowhere to be seen, the water thinning until their boots hit solid ground. 

Fredrik busies himself with emptying his armour of water while Vega scans the dirt for prints. The tide has cleared the shore of any trace but further up the tracks resurface as clear as day. They follow for a short distance and stumble upon an ominous mound.

There mangled in the sand lay the corpse of a human man. Vega kneels to inspect the body; the skin is blistered from the sun, blood vessels stark on the surface giving off a distinct marbled sheen. Chunks of the body have been ripped open, other parts missing. Judging from the patches of discoloured green on what’s left of the man’s upper body, the corpse has been decaying for at least a couple days, breaking down faster from the heat.  
If this was one of the victims, chances of the other one surviving are extremely slim. Vega searches surround area for any signs of the tigers but comes up short.

“The trail is gone, they must have turned back at some point.” He tells Fredrik who closes his book looking slightly shaken. 

Despite all the rumours about the beasts he had gathered prior, they had yet to see them kill anything larger than a skritt and he thinks back on their encounter with a gulp. Fredrik rubs the back of his neck and turns to the Sylvari, “I never got the chance to thank you for having my back when we fought them. If that tiger’s jaws had hit its mark...I would’ve probably ended up like this poor guy.”

“I would have drowned had you not found me in the bay.” Vega reminds the man, placing a reassuring hand on his arm, “We will need to rely on each other if we are to succeed on this hunt.”

That seemed to have cheered him up. Fredrik sets his gaze upon the rotting corpse, “We should bring his body back.”

“There is not much left of him to return.” Indeed, the man’s face is mauled beyond recognition and the body is missing more than a fair share. It would be cruel to carry the remains back to camp. "The best we can do is catch his assailants before someone else falls victim to them."

Fredrik nods grimly in understanding, rummaging in his bag for flint. It takes a few sparks for the corpse to light up, the flames spread rapidly engulfing the body in intense heat. He offers a small prayer and joins Vega as they walk back along the shore. 

As they sneak through the cluster of drakes, Vega spots a large paw print preserved in the wet sand leading into a huge rocky tunnel. They tread lightly on the jagged ground, keeping an eye out for the tubes protruding out from underneath and dodging the occasional rock blown their way from the vents. All the more difficult when darkness ebbs closer with every step into the tunnel. Thankfully the vast cave structure has high ceilings, allowing Fredrik to walk beside Vega’s glowing form comfortably. Vega illuminates the path just enough to see what’s in front, picking up prints in the mud every metre or so until they exit on the other side. 

The tunnel ends near the centre of the shoals, a long way away from Lion Point. Though faintly washed away from the waves, Vega spots the tracks easily, following the trail until the watery terrain becomes more green and they stop at the base of a mountain range.

“These cliffs connect to Sparkfly Fen.” Vega informs the Norn. He can tell the sight of it offends Fredrik deeply, the man’s scowl more prominent on his dripping face but he presses on, “We have to turn ba— “

“I didn’t flounder across the sea like a wet dog only to be thwarted by dragon-damned cliffs again!” Fredrik howls frustrated. The surrounding geysers flush and spray seawater about as though the very ocean is mocking him. He looks around the area and spots something that brings a wicked smile to his face.

“What are you doing?” Vega stares blankly at the Norn’s retreating back.

Fredrik makes a bee line back to the water’s edge, sinking his meaty arms into the sand and hauling a large stone disc from beneath. The rock is about as wide as Fredrik’s shoulders, its surface smooth from the crashing waves. He carries it over with great vigor, passing the perplexed Sylvari and placing it on top of the geyser closest to the cliffside. Climbing on top he sets his stance and waits with his arms crossed. 

A faint gurgling noise echoes through the ambience steadily growing louder and louder until a fierce torrent of water bursts forth from the geyser. The last thing Vega sees is Fredrik’s grinning face before he disappears in the blink of an eye, the rock he’s standing on launches high into the sky. The Norn wails triumphantly as he propels through the air, Vega cranes his neck to watch his hulking form leap off from the apex, landing on the top of the cliffs with a heavy thud. Fredrik’s head peaks over the edge into view. 

“What are you waiting for?” He calls, “Get up here!”

Vega looks over at the disc slamming back to the earth with a thunderous clap and can’t help the smirk on his face at the man’s antics, “You are insane!” He yells taking out his bow. _Well...two can play at that game._

Nocking an arrow into place, he takes a deep breathe and takes in the feel of the draw, the familiar weight and pull of his weapon. He’s been too long without it, muscles protesting more than he would have liked which makes wielding it all the more thrilling. Calculating the height, he pulls out four arrows from his quiver. Vega releases one arrow, piercing into the side of the cliff and shadowsteps to its position. Pushing off from there he quickly nocks another arrow and each push gains more traction, building up momentum until he’s almost scaled the whole cliff. 

He is a few metres away from the top when the exhilaration possesses him, a force within compelling him to do something entirely reckless. Vega slings his bow over his shoulder as he blinks onto the cliffside. He feels explosive; his body wound tight like a spring ready to burst. He makes a split second decision, mustering all his strength and leaps. By all accounts he shouldn’t reach the plateau but the thrum in his legs give him no doubt that he will. Gravity seems to bend at his will as he shoots right over the clifftop in an arc, landing behind Fredrik shattering the ground beneath his feet. He drops to his knees, his surplus of energy spent and he strains to keep himself up.

“Raven’s wing!” Fredrik scrambles over to him, “I didn’t know you could jump like that!”

“Neither did I.” Vega manages to respond between breathes, he looks up at the astonished Norn who bursts into laughter.

“Now who’s the crazy one?” Fredrik shakes his head and extends his hand.

Vega takes his hand gratefully, allowing Fredrik to hoist him to his feet. Steading his footing he stares back at the cracks in the dirt surrounding his footprint. Did he really do that from landing? He doesn’t consider himself particularly strong; his build is thin and wiry, possessing taut muscles built for speed not brawny like Fredrik’s. Never before had he felt such raw power coursing through his body— it was tantalizing and he has to wonder if he can tap into it again somehow. For now he focuses on the task at hand, his legs recover quickly and they continue on the trail into Sparkfly Fen. 

 

They descend the border with little fanfare, the plateau having nothing of interest to it besides being a brace for the crashing waves below. In spite of the Pact’s efforts Zhaitan’s influence is still present from the fractured shores all the way into the grasslands; rotted animals still wash up on the coast, the trees that grow closest to the Orrian sea are withered and soggy from its corruption. Bloated ancient undead fish still tunnel from beneath like a puss-filled blight, they burst at the slightest touch with the destructive force of a Charr landmine. They are careful to avoid such beasts as they traverse the sliver of land by the ocean’s inlet. 

Their feet land on the sparse flats of a ship graveyard, their barnacle encrusted bodies paint a haunting image by darkened seas. Vega surveys the area briefly, not expecting to find signs of the tigers anywhere near the death-touched shores. Logically the beasts would’ve headed north to the grasslands where prey is more abundant. He starts making his way up, casting a glance at Fredrik.

Vega notices the Norn’s shoulders are tense as he walks, eyes darting back to towards the pockets of land on the other side of the water. There are turrets and other contraptions scattered about the field, a few militants at the ready aiming the weapons at the shore. Perhaps more than just animals rise up from the sea but the people look well equipped and he wouldn’t expect a warrior like Fredrik to be on edge from the Risen. 

“What troubles you?” Fredrik jolts, startled out of his thoughts and slowly processes the question Vega so suddenly threw at him.

“It’s nothing really,” He chuckles lightly, “I’m just waiting to see if an epic undead monster will come out of the depths. Have you picked up anything?”

Judging from the way the Norn’s eyes wander back along the shore, Vega isn’t convinced but decides not to push the matter. “The tigers came down the same way we did. We will find tracks soon enough.” 

As they venture further north the scenery becomes more vibrant, the river flows calm and clear. When the coastline disappears on the horizon Fredrik seems to relax, all tension from his shoulders seep away and he faces forward walking alongside Vega with renewed focus. Among the withered grass he spots the unmistakable impression of a large feline paw and their search continues onward.

They follow the flow of the Leeshore Gauntlet, a broad estuary that cuts Sparkfly Fen in two connecting the northern ocean of Bloodtide Coast to southern undead Orrian sea. Even though they are far from the corrupted splintered coast and the trees grow a healthier shade of green, the areas around the river’s shores are far from safe. 

“I don’t think,” Fredrik chokes on the words as the pungent fumes of an undead fish bursts in the distance, assaulting his nostrils enough for him to go a little green in the face, “I don’t think I’m going to be eating fish for a while.”

Vega nods absently, more focused on locating the track. His eyes are starting to get rheumy from the infectious air, making it difficult to find the next print in the eroded soil. In his concentration he fails to notice the faint hammering of paws encroaching their position until it’s too late. Something pounces from the bushes, a whirling black blur slams into the distracted Norn, unbalancing Fredrik enough for him to stumble onto the dirt in a tangled heap. Vega reacts immediately, unsheathing the daggers from his sleeve ready to fight the creature off but stops when he hears the man giggling underneath.

The wolf happily nuzzling into the Norn’s beard is almost as tall as Vega, it’s black fur gruff and dusty, flakes of dirt rolling off as Fredrik runs a hand over its flank.

“Down, boy!” He yelps, pushing the furry beast out of his face, “I missed you too.”

It barks at him, sitting with its mouth open, tongue rolling out and panting. Its tail wags excitedly slapping the ground and Vega has to wonder if it is more dog than wolf.

“Skoll! Where’d you run off to?” A deep boisterous voice booms from within the forest causing the canine’s ears to perk up and Fredrik’s face to fall.

“Of course he wouldn’t be far behind.” He mumbles to himself before a figure emerges into the clearing.

A light tanned Norn steps into view; he’s sporting a traditional leather ensemble, the various tar-dyed straps are lined with gold and faded red furs hug his slim frame. The man is at least a head taller than Fredrik but the resemblance is uncanny, his beard just as thick with small braids weaved into it and his auburn hair tied neatly into a tight bun instead of shaved at the sides. He wields what appears to be the skull of an enormous goat, the bowstring tied at the end of its impressive antlers.

At his feet another wolf stands regal; its fur is surprisingly pristine, the white of it blinding compared to the dreary greyness of the riverbank. Its blue stare is wary but the soft swish of its tail gives away its enthusiasm. The man’s green eyes lock with Fredrik’s and he splits into a grin.

“Well if it isn’t the little pup!” He loops his bow over his shoulder and walks closer with arms outstretched, 

“Runkir,” Fredrik greets, “what a pleasant surprise.” He all but lets the taller Norn drape over him, patting his back awkwardly in his embrace, “I thought you’d be patrolling the beaches.”

“I help out where I can.” He responds with chin held high, “It does the people good to see the Slayer out and about.”

“Of course it does.” Fredrik drawls, rolling his eyes not so subtly, “Well can’t stay for a chat, we’re in the middle of tracking some beasts.”

“Started that hunt of yours did you?” Runkir swivels his neck to take a gander at Vega, “So he must be that famous bounty hunter you were looking for.” He snorts at Fredrik’s flummoxed expression, “Just because you never reply to my letters doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re up to, little pup.”

Vega stands watching impassively as the two brothers converse, his leaves bristle before he notices the white wolf slowly approach. Its blue eyes lock with his for a moment then it circles him pressed snug at his side, sliding its head under his palm much like a cat would before sauntering back to Runkir who stops and gives Vega his full attention. As he steps closer Vega has to crane his neck to stare back at his scrutinizing gaze. 

“You don’t look like much to me,” Runkir narrows his eyes, “but Hati seems to like you and I trust his judgement. A man who favours the bow can’t be all bad.” He face crinkles as he smiles, extending a friendly hand forward, “Thank you for looking out for my brother. He can be a reckless oaf.” 

Vega notices Fredrik yelp indignantly at the jab and shakes Runkir’s hand amicably, “We look out for each other.”

Seemingly thrilled at his response Runkir beams, his grip tightens, “I didn’t catch your name, bounty hunter. I am Runkir, Slayer of the Sunless. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“It’s Vega,” He replies promptly, already well accustomed to the boastful nature of Norn. He sneaks a glance at Fredrik who signals wildly at him to end the conversation and so with a smirk he continues, “I cannot say that I have but we must be on our way.”

“Oh but a tale it is to behold! I’ll tell you about it while you track,” Runkir decides, marching on ahead towards the grasslands, “I’ll even lend you my wolves— Skoll and Hati have the finest noses this side of the Fen.”  
At the sound of its name Skoll bounds forward yipping at the Norn’s side, Hati walks gracefully and dips its head at Vega as if to say ‘I’m at your service’.

“That would be helpful.” Vega supplies, walking along to the sound of Fredrik’s quiet whiny groans in the back.

They move across Karinn’s Passage along the Orvanic Shore stopping occasionally when Skoll finds the odd rotten fish sprout, stomping and dashing away unabashed by the fowl liquid that bursts forth bringing out a scowl of disgust from Hati who stays vigilant with Runkir as he reminisces on the battle.

“As you would suspect of a Risen dragon general, slaying it once would not do. We knocked it thrice out of the sky and yet Tequatl the Sunless was still just as ferocious. We were at our wit’s end, my wolves ripped into the dragon’s rotting flesh for hours until its legs gave out and its ugly head finally fell to the floor which was when I had a brilliant idea!” 

Vega nods along to the Norn’s tale, more focused on searching the ground. Fredrik trudges beside him looking more exhausted than ever as though listening to his brother rambling was more of an ordeal than anything they’ve faced thus far. 

“With Snow Leopard’s blessing I charged right up to Tequatl with bow in hand and leaped onto its disgusting form, riddling its slimy eyes with arrows until it screeched into the heavens and took flight with me in tow! I held on for dear life as the world spun around me and I was alone with the beast. I was losing air, I had to act quick so with the force of Bear I mustered all my strength and hacked at the dragon right between its eyes until I felt the squelching of its undead brain and then suddenly we plummeted from the sky, shattering the coastline.”

Fredrik fidgets around in his peripheral, Vega casts him a quizzical glance and notices the Norn mimicking his brother’s movements, silently mouthing the words like a rehearsed play. Runkir blissfully unaware turns back to them with gusto.

“My greatest kill. Although as expected of the undead, he always comes back. Now I patrol the shore waiting for him to rise and thus the Slayer of the Sunless I became.” He finishes with a flourish looking eagerly at Vega like he expects a certain level of applause.

“A dragon is no easy foe, your title is well-earned.” Vega praises offhandedly before finally spotting a large tiger print in the grass.

He kneels to inspect the indent further, the wolves circle around him sniffing at the track. They lift their noses to the air and sprint further north with Skoll barking incessantly for them to follow. Hati finds the next print with no trouble and they continue along the path until they reach a high cliff by the Verarium Delves. Vega looks up at the cliffs, too high to see the top of it but judging from Skoll pawing up along the rocks he knows the tigers must be up there. He slides a hand across the rock surface, the sediment crumbles off easily and yet there are no claw marks to indicate the beasts had made the climb. There must be something they’re missing.

“The trail is lost.” Vega tells the Norns, the wolves retreating to Runkir’s side.

“Impossible,” Runkir pats them in comfort, “Skoll and Hati never lose a scent.”

Vega takes in the surrounding area looking for any signs where they could have missed. He rubs his eyes still straining from the vile stench of undead wafting in the air even this close inland and an idea surfaces.  
“Perhaps it is not what they can smell,” he sets a brisk pace as he walks beside the cliffside, “but what they do not.” 

They walk until the smooth cliffs become the jagged rocky edges of the Uzanarin Depths and Vega stops at a suspicious opening in the caverns. A hole was made here without a doubt but it is sealed shut by a solid fleshy wall. On cue, Skoll surges forth and bites into the meat, pulling it out for all to see. There strewn across the dirt lies a festering corpse of a human man, despite most of his extremities missing (most likely devoured) the emblem ripped across his chest is distinctly of the Lionguard. 

“I guess we found the other victim.” Fredrik notes unpleasantly scrunching his nose at the smell. 

His body is less decomposed than the one found in Southsun but the clamminess of his green skin denotes that he was indeed dragged here from across the sea.

“They must have hid their scents with the body.” Vega explains.

“And my wolves would be desensitized to the stench of the undead.” Runkir concludes, “Unbelievable! You mean to tell me they had the foresight to do that?” He laughs astonished, “You’ve chosen exceptional creatures for your hunt, brother.”

“Yes _my_ hunt.” Fredrik emphasises, “Don’t you have something better to do than follow us around?”

“Alright I’ll stop meddling in the little pups affairs.” Runkir chuckles looping an arm around Fredriks head to knock their foreheads together, “I know you'll do us proud. You are right though. It wouldn’t do well to leave the coast unguarded for long, my presence is needed elsewhere.”

“Yes, yes you’re very needed, go on now.” Fredrik ushers the man away, giving one last scratch to Skoll before they leave. He waves at him until Runkir disappears from sight.

Vega works on moving the rocks around the opening to widen the gap as Fredrik lets out a huge sigh of relief, “Thank the Spirits I thought he’d never leave!” 

“I understand why the Captain mistook you for your brother now.” He comments and smirks at the extremely offended face Fredrik makes.

“We look nothing alike!” He huffs, arms crossed petulantly.

“You miss him.” Vega prods as he crawls into the cave, the Norn begrudgingly follows close behind.

“I don’t miss that ego though,” Fredrik sneers, “I’ve heard that Slayer story more than a thousand times and did you hear him back there? The coast is unguarded without him? Bah!” 

Vega chuckles lightly, listening to the Norn whine about his brother with an amused fascination. Sylvari all came from the same tree and though they call each other brother and sister, he cannot really say he has ever experienced such familial bonds like the other races do. “As I recall, Zela said you had brothers. Are they all like that?”

“Oh you have no idea! Imagine living with three brothers all lording their titles over your head day in, and day out! Runkir, Slayer of a vanquished dragon’s general, how impressive! Johann, Champion of the Mists, more like champion of the meatheads. Just because he’s a Havroun now he thinks everything’s about the eternal battleground and don’t even get me started with my eldest brother Aldevar.” Fredrik complains, waving his arms around in a huff. 

In the shadowy tunnel he knows the Sylvari can’t see his wild gestures but the soft echo of his laughter rings quietly in Fredrik’s ears and soon he joins in as well, the mood lightens in the dark. They tread lightly in the cave lest the heavy clangs disturb things lurking in the dark or worse let alert their prey of their arrival. It grows silent for a while and Fredrik’s mind wanders, questions gnawing in his skull as he stares at Vega’s glowing back. Perhaps now is the time to pry for answers.

“I heard something pretty interesting from Lani.” Fredrik begins conversationally. A twitch of the ear is the only indication that Vega’s paying attention, “She told me a Valiant is someone who is given a Wyld Hunt by the Pale Tree.”

“That is correct.”

“And that a Wlyd Hunt is a noble, sacred calling. Upon receiving one Valiants are consumed by the need to fulfil it. Everything they do is to that end. Even if it doesn't make sense to others.” Fredrik trails off waiting for a response, hoping he’s said enough to prompt the Sylvari to elaborate.

Vega pauses his ascent, contemplating his words before continuing through the tunnel, “Do not take the fantasies of a sapling too seriously. Valiants are not mindless drones hell-bent on completing one task.” He chides, “What she calls a ‘sacred calling’ is merely a vision of many possible events. The future is uncertain. There is no guarantee that what we see will ever come to fruition whether we participate in it or not.”

Fredrik takes in his words, nodding slowly but it only makes him more curious, “Did your vision happen then?”

“No.” Vega replies with a finality that brings a palpable tension to the atmosphere, a single word much darker than this tunnel. Fredrik decides to let the conversation drop and continue heading towards the sliver of light in silence.

The end of the tunnel is speckled with light, the leafy vines drape over the mouth of the cave like a heavy curtain. Vega presses a hand to Fredrik’s shoulder to stop him on the spot, pulling the vines back slightly to peer out into the clearing. He gestures for the Norn to peek through and there in the centre of the grassy flats he spots the two tigers standing on top of a makeshift construct of a nest. 

Fredrik reaches for the hilt of his greatsword on his back but feels the grip on his shoulder tighten. He looks down at Vega shaking his head adamantly and tilts his head in confusion. They have the element of surprise— this is the perfect opportunity to strike. He tells Vega as much in hushed tones and the Sylvari’s glowing crimson eyes flare with determination, a plan already hatching in his mind as he whispers,

“This time we do it my way.”


	6. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~  
> This went on longer than I anticipated so I've split it in two, but hey at least the next update won't be so far away right? *nervous chuckle*
> 
> Enjoy <3

Morning twilight casts an eerie glow over the Verarium Delves; the rocky plateau matted with dark green moss and tall winding trees, their trunks twisting and growing around the smooth rock walls, and their leaves a vibrant, rich green that’s so rarely found in the undead stained Orvanic Shore. There are no creatures this high up the cliff, only the soft rustle of leaves and the trickling of glistening, clear blue water that flows through the centre of the Delves that connects the river gauntlet to the mountains beyond. 

Vega sits perched atop the tree closest to the tunnel entrance, his glowing leaves obscured in the thick branches’ embrace. His breath is slow and silent, a practised stillness keeps his form hidden in the dwindling darkness. He holds his bow firmly, an assortment of arrows at the ready. All has been set. Everything should fall into place.

At least it would if not for the occasional rustling that gnaws at his ears like an insatiable itch. 

“If I can hear you, the tigers definitely will.”

He keeps his eyes locked on the tunnel but he can feel the Norn’s disgruntled presence from the shrubbery below.

“Some of us don’t have wooden legs, we’ve been sitting here for hours!” Fredrik grumbles, rubbing his prickling legs on the verge of numbing, “I just don’t understand why we had to wait the next day when we had them right where we wanted them.”

“Would you like me to list the reasons by number of escape routes or alphabetically?” 

Vega’s lips quirk as Fredrik falls silent.

“Patience.” He placates, “The stage is set. You will have your fight soon enough.”

He understands the man’s restlessness; Norn are a proud, warrior people— more inclined to tackle beasts head-on rather than rely on subterfuge. An honourable trait but not one Vega is willing to indulge. The tigers are monumentally ferocious with an acquired taste for human flesh. As much as he has come to know (and perhaps admire) Fredrik’s strength, he also knows how easy it is to be overwhelmed fighting one, let alone two simultaneously. His shoulder thrums from the old wound and remembering how close the tiger had been to ripping at Fredrik’s jugular, he steels his resolve. He will not repeat their first encounter.

Another hour goes by and when sunlight truly purveyed over the plateau they hear it. The soft pattering of shifting pebbles echoing faintly in the tunnel. A feline paw emerges from the darkness, its tuffs of orange striking in the light. In its jaws another unfortunate victim; limp and mauled beyond recognition, the adult-sized body looks miniscule dragged between the tiger’s teeth. 

With fresh blood still dripping across the stone, all Fredrik can see is red. He stares down the gore-strained face of the beast and itches to unleash his blade but stays right where he is. He wants nothing more than to run out of the bush and relish in its look of surprise before he slices the orange menace in two but the image of Vega’s mangled form, golden sap ripped from his shoulder after taking a hit meant for him keeps his body rooted in place. They have a plan. He will not repeat their first encounter.

Its stride is languid and steady as though dragging the weight of a human corpse is no effort at all, taking its time to reach the nest erected across the stream on the highest peak. The tiger is halfway across the plateau before the other rears its head from the tunnel and it is then that they strike.

The click of the switch alerts the tigers, ears perking but too late— the pebble-sized bombs Vega carefully placed inside the tunnel walls give a high-pitched keen and detonate, cascading rocks behind the tigers and effectively close off the tunnel. Everything happens in an instant. The orange tiger drops the body and rushes towards the nest site, the burst of speed almost becomes its downfall as Fredrik swings his greatsword through the bush in an arc, the tiger narrowly escaping with a breakneck turn. It leaps away from the Norn with a snarl, baring its huge fangs to the grinning warrior. The white tiger surges forward towards the pair but a line of arrows crackle and explode by its paws. 

Not missing a beat, Vega nocks in another set of arrows, the tips tied with sachets of poisonous gas and releases them down onto the beast below. It avoids the brunt of it by leaping to the side and he keeps the volley going, pushing the tiger further away from Fredrik’s position. Each dodge gets more sluggish than the last, it flares its nostrils growling irritably as the gas wittles down its senses. Shaking its head blearily it retreats towards the rock wall, Vega watches with rapt attention as a paw lands right where it needs to. The gears whirl inside the small opening inside the wall, launching a net over the tiger with such force that its disorientated form falls with a resounding thud. Vega lets loose arrows between the weaves of the net, pinning the dazed tiger in place. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. So long as he can keep this one at bay, Fredrik will have a decent shot at defeating the other. He doesn’t expect the net to hold the beast for long and spares a quick glance as the Norn musters the tiger in front of him. 

Fredrik charges in, the weightlessness of his new blade is exhilarating but not something he is accustomed to. He puts too much strength into the swing making his arc wider than it should be. The tiger dodges nimbly with fangs bared, his slashes get faster, more vigorous but he has yet to land a hit. He feels a familiar rush from his core, the tingle of his skin as his blood boils hot and he can’t help the raucous laughter escaping his lips because he knows as sure as his swings get increasingly more steady, it is only a matter of time before the beast succumbs to his blade.

Vega watches as the tiger backs slowly towards the edge of the cliff— the only means of escape now that the Norn blocks its path to the nest site. Or so it would seem. With a click he activates the final trap; sharpened spikes flip over, lining the ledge and jabbing at the retreating tiger. Its fierce roar is laced with pain as it delodges the spear out of its leg and dodges another slash.

The cries of the other reignites a ferocity within the white tiger, it reorients and pulls at the net with its teeth, its raw jaw strength snapping the rope like straw. Vega has another set of explosives at the ready, releasing the arrows before the tiger can take a step forward. This time the tiger takes note of the arrow’s trajectory, its bright yellow eyes lock onto his own before it vaults unbelievably high, reaching his position at the top of the tree in an instant.

Vega leaps away, bark flying where its claws scrape through the tree. He lands and rolls away as the tiger descends upon him immediately, its assault relentless and giving him no time to nock in his arrows. He unbuckles his quiver, contents long scattered on the floor and holds his bow with both hands bracing for the tigers incoming bite. It clamps onto the shaft, Vega’s arm tremble from the effort, the force of it sends him to a knee before he can summon the sigils woven in. The red crystals thrum to life and lightning shoots through the shaft, forcing the tiger to relinquish its hold and bounce back. Vega stands, his arms shaky but his grip remains firm. Under normal circumstances he would stealth himself and find an opportunity to strike but he knows the moment he leaves the tiger’s sight it will charge straight for Fredrik so he must keep its attention. 

He bends, legs coiled tight and thrusts forward, ducking under the tiger’s swipes and swings. The shaft whips the beast on its neck, sending a jolt through its body and he twists out of the way as its jaw come crashing down on his position. He jabs the pointed end of his bow into its sides, the protrusions not sharp enough to pierce its thick hide but enough for the tiger to snarl irritably and follow his movements. He repeats the motion, hitting the tiger with his bow and dodging away just far enough to keep its gaze rooted on him.

As the minutes go by, rather than feel the exhaustion of each dodge, his muscles resonate and feel more empowered as though each swing and leap stored up reserves of energy, building up his endurance until it spilled forth. Vega felt more invigorated than ever and remembers a similar feeling when he scaled the cliff. He lets instinct guide his path, jumping over the tiger and striking its back with a deft mid-air turn. He lands with an audible crack, the stone beneath crumbles under his boot and he bounds once more towards the rock wall, the tiger giving chase. With a single leap he sails high along the wall and kicks off just as the tiger comes within reach. He manages another hit as he drops, never breaking eye contact with its yellow eyes. 

Those damnable eyes.

_“Where are you going? We’re about to deploy!”  
He can barely register what Tekotes is saying over the drone of Pact airships. Airships he had seen in his dream. The very same that would soon colour the sky in fiery red and careen down to the earth. Thousands dead._

His strikes fall into a rhythm; bouncing off of every available surface, weaving in and out of the tiger's reach, hitting just hard enough to agitate. 

_The woman that called out to him in his dream, her voice now was not one of desperation but inspiration. The Commander of the Pact. She was here. This was the moment he was born for. He will not let it come to fruition._

Land. Crack. Hit. Jump. Even his breath falls into step. His focus remains keen, dodging the tigers increasingly aggressive strikes. Streaks of rubble and bark fly around them in this dance of claws and teeth. 

_A stark yellow amidst the rotting ocean grey. He remembers those eyes. If he could just catch them, he can prevent it all. He can complete his Wyld Hunt._

Fredrik lets out a guttural roar, a booming, powerful sound that rips both their eyes from one another and watch stunned as the magma emanating from within the Norn’s centre bursts forth, using his greatsword as a conduit, the red engulfs his blade and extends its reach. With an uppercut he slices the tiger’s torso, staining its orange fur in blood. 

_Coral whipped at his sides, he barely felt the cuts at his speed. His right arm thrusted forward. He was almost there._

The force of Fredrik’s swing sends the tiger catapulting over the spikes, its limp body falls out of sight over the smooth cliffside and the white tiger follows suit, ramming the barricade with enough momentum to break through and both hit the ground with a thunderous splash. Vega quickly swipes an arrow from the floor and stands over the ledge, drawing the bow fully.

_He woke up in a daze, motionless on the cold Orrian floor. The explosion left his ears ringing. He couldn’t feel his arm._

His aim is true but as he watches the tiger drag its bloodied, unconscious partner out from the stream, he finds his grip becomes too tight and his breathing shallow and erratic. He can’t take the shot.

_Airships sailed overhead. He was wrong._

“What are you waiting for?!” Fredrik stares disbelievingly as the Sylvari stays stick still, he walks briskly to Vega’s side as the last of his adrenaline crackles off his skin, “They’re getting aw— “

He stops abruptly looking down at the man’s face staring unblinking out towards the beasts but his eyes are not quite _here._ Vega’s pupils are pinpricks trembling in his crimson orbs, he can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as though he’s not quite getting enough air. His right arm grips the arrow tight, spasms ripple through it like jolts of electricity. Fredrik has never seen him look so haunted. 

“Vega?” He places a careful hand onto his shoulder, the touch sends the Sylvari rigid breaking him out of whatever spell had come over him. 

“I— “ Vega lowers the bow, eyes looking wildly around for a moment as though he’s forgotten his surroundings and he takes an audible gulp, “I’m fine.”

The shoulder trembling underneath his palm tells him otherwise but Fredrik doesn’t press the issue, instead he gives a reassuring squeeze and looks over the cliff to the stream.

“We lost them.”

Vega calms beneath the Norn’s grip, the words bring him back on track and he follows his gaze. The tigers are long gone but even from this distance he can spot the drag of blood smeared on wet soil. 

“Not for long.” He shrugs off Fredrik’s hand, picking up the sparse arrows and quiver that weren’t crushed during their battle. 

He does so with controlled purpose, hoping the monotony of the task will balance the turmoil of his mind. How could he let them get away? He was so lost in the memories those eyes dragged back to the surface. A facet of his past long buried, from before he became a bounty hunter. In that time he faced countless beasts, stared into the depths of countless eyes and nothing would come of it. Why now? 

Heading up towards the nest site, Vega latches onto the ropes rigged on the rocky ledge, the only means of departing Verarium Delves that he had accounted for, and starts descending the vertical slope. Questions still bubble in his mind and something in his core, something primal and instinctual echoes an answer in response but he disregards it vehemently. Perhaps he has been too long without a good drink. Delving any deeper into it will do him no good and he decides instead to focus entirely on the task at hand.

They circle back towards the stream— it doesn’t take a keen eye to notice the puddles of watery blood leading further north. They waste no time and begin following the trail anew. As soon as they reach the northernmost edge of Sparkfly Fen the smeared blood comes to a stop but the signs are no less obvious; bloody red prints indent the soil and paint a solid path for them to track. The orange tiger must have woken up at this point and gained a sizable distance. Judging from how heavy the paws are imprinting, they were in a hurry and careless enough not to step lightly. 

Vega picks up the pace, the burn of his legs keeps his mind from wandering and he finds the rhythmic clinks of the Norn’s boots running close behind oddly grounding. He catches glimpses of red among the green easily and adjusts course accordingly as they sprint across the border.

The sickly green cedars and mangroves soon become more tropical palm trees as they head into the pirate-laden islands of the Bloodtide Coast. Running through the flatlands of Mentecki Pass the tracks come to a stop. They skid to a halt and scour the area; a torrential waterfall pours down from the high cliffs bordering Lornar’s Pass into an underground pool, the water rippling around a shipwrecked vessel. Vega bends down to inspect the edges— claw marks. 

“They jumped.” He tells Fredrik, beckoning the Norn over and pointing down towards the darkness below. There is just enough light reflected on the water to reveal a flowing passage at the far end of the cave. 

“I believe this channels through to the Demon’s Maw.”

Fredrik walks over, catching his breath. They’ve been at this for days. He didn’t expect to run across maps quite so vigorously, camping only briefly when the darkness obscured their way and looking over at Vega’s unsteady footing straining to hold his crouched form, he can tell the man is pushing himself too hard. 

“I’m not sure what happened at the Delves,” he starts, gauging Vega’s reaction, “but we don’t have to pursue them so tirelessly, we can give ourselves a moment to recover.” As his brothers always told him; Even one as strong as Bear knows to hibernate in winter. 

“A momentary lapse in judgement.” Vega supplies blandly, “It will not happen again.”

“That’s not what I— “

“Try not to hit the ship.” Vega warns as he clips his aquabreather into place and dives into the underground cave.

“Spirits, he’s a stubborn one.” Fredrik grumbles, rummaging for his own apparatus, “If I had known we’d be doing so much swimming, I would’ve told Zela to make me a swimsuit instead.”

The water is ice cold to the touch, Vega locks up momentarily from the shock of the plunge but quickly acclimates. He waits for the heavy splash as Fredrik hits the pool, thankful the cave has long since been abandoned by its inhabitants and starts heading towards the lostwreck passage. The tunnel is completely dark save for the soft red glow of his leaves, a solid beacon for Fredrik to follow as Vega pushes forward. 

They emerge from a river running between canyons at the southern-west reaches of Lornar’s Pass. Fredrik hauls himself onto the river bank with a mild grunt, water gushing out from the metal plates of his armour. He pulls off a boot to pour out the offending liquid and squints enviously at Vega’s leafy armour as the clinging water seems to absorb, giving his coat a healthy sheen. Unclasping his aquabreather he takes in the air; the smell of wet grass wafts in first before the heavy musk of soured meat and refuse assaults his nostrils. 

“Definitely Ettin nearby.” He remarks, scrunching his nose in disgust. 

“The tigers came through here.” Vega points to the droplets of dried blood leading into a path high up into the canyon.

They proceed cautiously, shrouding in stealth when they reach the top and peer down onto the Ettin settlement; rudimentary tents at built by the edges, hides and carcasses strewn about as decoration, piles of bones and unfinished meals litter the grounds. Vega notices the glint of Asuran surveillance devices floating conspicuously by each tent but the Ettins seem to pay no attention to them. A quick glance revealed no sign of the tigers. What does draw a curious eye is the surprisingly tiny Ettin sitting on the lap of the Chief, a hulking green Ettin towering over the rest. 

“Small one cute.” The Chief’s voice rumbles, reverberating from both heads contently, “More cute than big cat. You stay with me.”

They stroke the small Ettin’s head lovingly, the pull of its skin unnaturally stretchy and that is when he spots the large holes where its eyes are supposed to be— round, bright green eyes laced with fear are hiding beneath, the two lumps on the side of its disproportioned head eerily similar to a pair of long, floppy ears. An Asura. 

“This is becoming ridiculous. I’ll kill Orson for this!” The disguised Asura hisses in a high-pitched voice, squeaking involuntarily after each pet, “Some assistance, please!” 

Vega has no idea who the strange woman would be talking to, more focussed on finding signs of the tigers whereabouts along the cliff but he can already tell Fredrik is ready to respond to her distress. He hears the Norn’s boots scrape the edge and the whistle of the wind zipping through his armour as he plummets into the camp below. A thunderous boom has the Ettins perplexed, staring at the crater seemingly created from thin air before his stealth wears off and Fredrik points his blade at the Ettin Chief.

“Let her go!” 

The Chief stands at their full height, both heads looking down at Fredrik with nostrils flared. They clutch the little Ettin possessively in one giant hand and roar, “Small one stay with me!”

Fredrik rolls away from the swoop of their mighty spiked club and when the Chief lumbers forward, Vega goes on the offensive. Unsheathing his daggers Vega leaps off the cliff, allowing the momentum to carry his arms over his head and aims for the giant Ettin’s back. He swings his arms forward, thrusting both daggers into the Chief’s shoulder blades and slides down to the ground, slicing deep lines into their putrid green hide. They arch their spine howling in agony, their grip on the small Ettin breaks loose, flinging the disguised Asura into the air. She screeches, limbs flailing and crashes into Fredrik’s chest, clinging to it for dear life. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She chants, her voice muffled from pressing her face into the Norn as though she were trying to squeeze through the plating.

“Don’t thank me yet, friend.” Fredrik pries her off gently.

When her shaky legs stand firmly on the ground he returns his focus to the monstrous Ettin in front, whirling their club but failing to hit Vega who is darting in and out of sight, slowly chipping at the back of their knee and sending them off-balance, slamming hard into the ground. They get up shakily and Fredrik runs in.

With the Chief’s attention no longer on him, Vega climbs on top of a tent and takes aim with his bow, releasing the explosive arrows sparingly but the shock of them pushes the other Ettins a safe distance away, they gather around and staring warily at the battle unfolding.

Fredrik side-steps the Ettins wide swings with ease. Going toe-to-toe against the tigers has made him more agile he realises and the thought sends him into a mirthful chortle. 

“Compared to those beasts, you’re as slow as they come!” 

The enraged Chief roars, bringing down their club with all their strength. Fredrik twists his greatsword, using the flat side to hit the club back. A deafening clang rings through the camp as their weapons clash, the bounce knocks back the Ettin’s arm leaving their body wide open. Even with this advantage the Chief’s towering height doesn’t allow him to reach their bewildered heads but that doesn’t deter him. Fredrik heaves his sword over his head, activating the sigils within and throws the blade down in an arc, the stabilizing matrix whirls and the metal leaves its hilt to close the gap. His greatsword lodges deep into the Ettin’s jugular like a butcher’s meat hook and he pulls down, blade eager to meet its handle. As his weapon clicks back into place the Chief comes crashing down, blood spewing from their open neck as they convulse and then stop.

“Hah!” The Asura woops triumphantly, she runs towards the body and gives the Chief’s heads a solid kick, “Time to get rid of this stupid suit.”

She rips through the costume like she can’t be rid of it soon enough and when her ears come out with an audible pop she gives a sigh of relief. With her new found freedom she throws the suit down in a huff.  
“I can't believe I was stupid enough to help that buffoon.” Looking back at her two rescuers, she flashes a manic grin, “You have to help me escape so I can get my revenge on Orson!”

The death of one of their own causes an uproar in the camp and soon more and more Ettins emerge from the canyon, their conjoined heads snapping and snarling at the trio. The Asuran woman’s determination all but drains from the sight, running to shield herself behind one of Fredrik’s legs.

“I’m the important one!” She wails, “Protect me!”

A whirlwind of clubs descends upon them, Fredrik leans behind his greatsword, the spikes wailing onto the metal keeping him in place. An Ettin misses the Asura’s face by an inch and in her blind panic she rushes forward for the exit, running zig-zags through the mob, ducking underneath their legs but soon loses her way in the confusion, circling the crowd trying to smash her into paste. Vega manages to pinpoint her location from his vantage point before the Ettins make a swing for him as well, slamming their clubs down on the flimsy tent and shattering the wood into splinters. 

He rolls to his feet and makes a mad dash towards her. Gripping his bow with both hands, he weaves between the Ettins, twisting away from their blows and knocking them with the shaft, the shockwaves from it send the Ettins reeling just enough for him to see the woman frozen in fear as one of them has her cornered, club ready to come down on her with full force. 

Vega doesn’t think. There is no time. He rushes in, boots kicking up dirt as he slides in front of her petrified form with his bow outstretched ready to take the brunt of it. Agonising seconds go by crouched beneath the Ettin’s shadow, watching the club come so close to hitting— then nothing. Suddenly they are surrounded by a dome of brilliant white-blue that the weapon cannot penetrate and Vega could only stare bewildered as the Ettin is sent careening into the opposite wall by the slam of a giant floating hammer.

“I have no doubt my bow could withstand the force of an Ettin but I can’t say the same for you.” 

That voice. He cranes his neck to gape at the broad Sylvari standing before him. It takes him a moment to realise he was the one that erected the shield. The one that protected him. He isn’t sure how or why the man is here but the sight of him brings the memories flooding back.

_The strength of his grip keeps Vega grounded as the airships prepare to make their assault into the heart of Orr. His bright magenta eyes boring into his soul, telling him not to leave. But he has foreseen it. Everything was falling into place. If he does not stop it…_

The dark blue Sylvari paints an imposing figure; the whip of his long coat as the spectral hammer rushes by, the flare of his fuchsia glow streaked through the ferns on his head and the intensity of those magenta eyes pin Vega in place. 

“Tekotes…” He speaks the man’s name like he’s seen a ghost, the only thing he manages as a chill settles in and he finds he can’t quite breathe.

“You look terrible.” The Magister remarks, giving him a once over and looking thoroughly unimpressed, “I thought the famous bounty hunter would fare better. Or has chasing wild animals rusted your skills?”

“Magister!” Vega jolts as the Asura cries overjoyed, springing from behind him to greet the stoic Sylvari.

Tekotes remains unmoving, barely inclining his head and redirecting his gaze to give her a scathing look.

“Venpa.” 

She flinches at the utterance of her name, ears drooping low and meek like a reprimanded child. He barely bats an eye when another Ettin approaches slamming their club onto the protective dome. When it seems that the corona begins to shatter from the blows, Tekotes unhooks a scepter— Priory issued— from the holster by his waist and turns to face the hulking creature. Vega’s eyes go wide, the club coming down right on top of Tekotes but then suddenly stops. 

Chains summoned from thin air hold the Ettin in place, glowing the same brilliant blue as the hammer and with the flick of his wrist he places a symbol under the Ettin’s feet. Ghostly fists seemingly called forth from the astral plane wail on the creature from all sides until they come crashing down, bloodied and bruised. With a click he returns the scepter to his side and extends a hand towards Vega expectantly. He furrows his brow, not quite sure what the Magister wants from him. Tekotes clicks his lips in annoyance at having to spell it out.

“You’re out of arrows.” 

“Oh.” 

Vega hands him the bow. Tekotes grasps the grip and takes aim at the horde of Ettin still pummeling Fredrik’s crouched form behind his greatsword. He conjures wisp-like arrows and releases them skyward, raining down upon the group but instead of piercing their green hides like Vega expects, the arrows splinter like spider webs ensnaring the Ettins in place. For a moment all Vega can do is stare in wonderment at the Guardian before him and think back on old times when the Magister was but a young scholar, clinging to a chipping greatsword and he a hopeful valiant. Back when they were friends. When did he learn to wield a bow? When had he become so strong? A bitter chill sets in. Vega used to know, be so well-accustomed to the Guardian’s skills and repertoire— now he knows almost nothing. Had it really been that long?

The clang of Fredrik’s blade colliding with the Ettin’s skull breaks him out of it, his attention snaps to Tekotes as his scowling eyes glance back at him.

“Did you forget how to use your daggers as well?”

Vega’s red glow flares sheepishly across his cheeks at that. He had been too caught up in his own thoughts to remember they were in the middle of battle. He unsheathes his blades from the cuffs of his sleeves and lunges into the fray.

When the Ettins break through Tekote’s chains it is too late. Vega sweeps through the crowd bent low and out of reach as he slices through their tendons and sends them falling to the ground. Fredrik barrels through, using the flat blunt side of his sword to incapacitate them with a solid swing. One by one the Ettins fall until the settlement is silent, disturbed only by their harsh, ragged breaths. 

Fredrik brings an arm over his face catching the sweat off his brow. When he heard the small one’s desperate pleas he had jumped instinctively, knowing Vega would not be far behind. It is not as though he wanted to veer off their path but the man was particularly fixated as of late and Fredrik had hoped this would be a welcome distraction. He looks over to Vega shaking off the blood clinging to his daggers with a vacant expression. He’d like to think after running with the Sylvari for this long he could distinguish between Vega’s contemplative silence and when something is actually wrong. Something has Vega on edge ever since their fight with the tigers but it wasn’t hard to figure out the cause to his immediate discomfort. 

He approaches the two standing idle by the camp entrance, a passage leading out of the Twoheaded Meadows, and kneels down in front of the small Asuran woman.

“Are you alright?” Fredrik inquires as she crosses her arms in a huff with no injuries to speak of.

“Yes, thank you. The only thing that’s hurt is my pride! I can’t believe I let Orson trick me into wearing that suit.” Venpa looks back that the discarded Ettin disguise with a sneer.

Fredrik nods along, not quite sure who this Orson fellow is but the woman seemed spirited enough so he turns his attention to the blue Sylvari inspecting the bow meticulously.

“Tekotes, it’s great to see you again.” He greets with a grin, “I didn’t know you were so versatile with your weaponry.”

“Indeed.” The Magister rolls his eyes, “It’s almost as though forging weapons requires a fundamental understanding of how to wield them.” His words ooze with sarcasm but Fredrik doesn’t mind.

“What brings you here so far south?” He continues with a chuckle, giving Vega a quick side glance as he joins them.

“Priory business.” Tekotes replies promptly, eyes scrutinizing the etches of teeth marks along the bow shaft, “I take it the tigers came through here?”

At the mention of them, Fredrik lets out a frustrated groan, “Those slippery devils escaped during our battle, we’ve been chasing them for days!” 

“We were tracking them along the cliff.” Vega chimes in, voice unwavering and his focus back on task.

Tekotes looks between the two and nods as something clicks, handing Vega the bow.

“Come with me.”

 

They descend the passage through Twoheaded Meadows in the grassy clearing below, walking towards a modest set-up by the mountainside; a large tent and a workbench in front between four pillars is littered with various testing equipment and supplies with only one floating blue crystal of Asuran design to illuminate the makeshift laboratory. A man looks up from his tinkering, dark eyes growing wide and runs up to greet them.

“Ha ha! Glad to have you back, Venpa!” 

The sight of his billowing navy robes and tacky yellow scarf drive Venpa over the edge as she picks up the pace and looks up at him with a pointed glare.

“You, sir, are a complete and utter failure.”

Orson clutches his forehead in mirth, sweeping through his black buzz-cut hair, “Are you sure?”  
He pulls up a monitor, a holographic projection of Venpa in the Chief’s lap appears, “They let them stay with you, after all. I’d say the experiment was a complete success.”

“You-you!” 

Before Venpa can burst, Tekotes steps in front. He’s well over a head taller than the man but his unblinking scowling eyes would have commanded attention regardless.

“Explain your findings.”

Orson is momentarily stunned, when he finally processes what he said he scrambles into action, “Y-yes of course, Magister!”

He flicks through the tablet, pulling up a video of the Ettin Chief from some weeks ago and begins,  
“As I was saying before you ran in, I’ve been keeping an eye out on the local Ettin population. Their Chief has a fascination with pets— here they are with some sort of large cat.”

They crowd closer to peek at the screen; even as grainy as the footage is, the distinct stripes marking the feline body are indication enough. Fredrik pulls out his journal, scribbling down the observation eagerly. Vega hardly sees the relevance, this was taken long before they began their pursuit; perhaps it had instinctually come here from previous experience with a doting caretaker but that doesn’t help them track the beast down in the present.

“They were really upset when it left,” Orson continues, “which sparked the idea for my latest creation— “

“You told me it was almost indistinguishable from a real Ettin! Not that I was going to replace some pet!” Venpa fumes, pointing an accusatory finger at her lab partner.

“You weren’t! I really made it as authentic as I could, I even got the smell right!” He throws his hands up defensively, a genuine look of confusion etched on his face.

“Enough.” Tekotes snaps, silencing their useless prattle and turns to Vega, “You say you’ve been tracking them through these cliffs.”

“We lost sight of them in Sparkfly Fen three days ago but one is gravely injured.” He supplies calmly, “We have been following the blood since then.”

“Orson.” The man jolts to attention as Tekotes calls for him, “Bring me all feeds on monitors six through twelve from the last three days.”

“Right away, Magister!” 

The scholar rushes to the workbench, sweeping its contents with his arm to clear space for the tablet he places in the centre. The blue holographic screen projects the Ettin camp from various angles showcasing their day-to-day lives in stark monotony. Tekotes and Vega lean over the table staring intently at the screens in sync, both eyes scanning separate sections with a practised ease as Tekotes speeds up the footage. They wind forward to the next day and that is when Vega spots it.

“There.” 

Tekotes pauses the feed, enlarging the screen Vega is pointing to and replays the scene; the surveillance equipment is set up low, panning upwards into the tent of an Ettin ripping into their meal in front of a small roaring flame, the dark shadow of their home painted high on the rocky cliffside. Fredrik leans over the two squinting at the screen slightly perplexed, not quite sure what caught the hunter’s attention.  
Something disturbs the solid shade, Vega points out, picking up on the rustle of small pebbles tumbling down from above as two pinprick blurs, barely visible on the edges of where the screen cuts off and blackened by the angle of the sun flaring on the lens, rush past obviously in too much of a hurry to consider their footing. 

“Those cliffs lead east towards the Venison Pass, you’re not far behind.” The Magister deduces before shutting off the screen, “Then this wasn’t an egregious waste of time.”

Orson wrings his hands together chuckling nervously beside Tekotes,  
“I do hope you’re not referring to reviewing my project, Magister.” 

He turns slowly, directing his glowing eyes towards the scholar and pulls a face as though he was ruminating on the issue extensively. Orson leans a little too close with bated breath for the verdict.

“The Priory will not be funding this endeavour.” Tekotes announces deadpan, the decision made long before he had entered the Ettin’s den.  
Orson sputters, eyes wide and mouth agape like a fish out of water, a pathetic display he would prefer out of his sight as soon as possible. He turns to the small Asura whooping quietly behind the man and settles the matter quick.

“Venpa, you will be in charge of this base. I expect a new proposal in my office by the end of the week.”

“Yes! I won’t let you down, ah Magister, sir!” She almost forgets the formality in her excitement but Tekotes has already begun leaving the laboratory with Fredrik and Vega in tow when Orson runs after him latching onto his arm like his life depended on it.

“Please, Magister, I just can’t accept this! You’ve got to reconsider!”

“Let me make this perfectly clear.” Tekotes sneers down at the sniveling scholar, annunciating every word with a deeply displeased tone, “You made a suit out of _filth_ and had the audacity to call it science. The decision is final.”

He yanks his arm away and walks on, leaving Orson standing flabbergasted by the edge of the camp. Fredrik feels a small pang of sympathy for the man as they leave, taking longer strides to catch up to Vega who is trying to match Tekotes’ brisk pace. When they are a sizable distance from camp, Tekotes lets out a sigh rubbing at his temples like he’s got a headache coming on. Fredrik gives Vega a pointed look, jerking his head towards the disgruntled Sylvari in front of them but the stubborn dolyak stays put. Alright then.

“I appreciate you coming along with us, Tekotes.” The Norn begins cordially, stepping forward to walk abreast.

“I am not here to hold your hand along this path.” The Magister drawls, sweeping a hand through his ferns, “I also have business to attend to this way.”

“Magister work sure keeps you busy.” Fredrik chuckles, the mood already starting to lighten as Tekotes scoffs at his remark.

“The title may sound prestigious but most of the time I am nothing more than a glorified errand boy sent out on the whims of an overzealous Steward.” Tekotes answers somewhat bitterly, “Clearing his plate so he can attend the Summit is just one of those things.”

“Summit?”

“A gathering of world leaders to discuss…” Tekotes pauses like he wants to say more but looks towards Vega with an unreadable expression.  
“...matters that you need not concern yourselves with.” He says eventually, mulling it over slowly like it left a bad taste after and turning back to Fredrik with piqued interest, “How are your endeavours progressing?”

Fredrik can’t whip out his journal fast enough, pouring over the pages and updating the Magister on the new additions since they last met. Vega stares idly at the two, once again impressed by their ability to decipher anything from those incoherent scribbles. Something clenches inside of him, like a hollow cold that rusts at his joints and fills his lungs with stale thin air. It’s hard to think straight when he looks at Tekotes’ broad back; he was the last person Vega ever thought he would see again and the fact that they are travelling together (albeit just on the same road as the Magister put it) boggles him. Tekotes did not want to see him, he thought the man had made that clear from their last interaction. Lost in his own thought, time moves slowly but eventually the voices fade to silence and there is only the crunching of boots on dirt to keep Vega’s mind rooted to the present.

“I’ve spoken with Terabellum.” 

Vega jumps, whipping his head to the side where Tekotes now walks abreast with him, Fredrik writing avidly into his journal. When did he get there? Tekotes rolls his eyes at his reaction but continues on in an even tone as though he were reading off a list, “She tells me you came limping into her shop festering with root rot, oozing sap all over the floor and took a highly volatile, completely untested elixir in order to speed up your recovery.”

Vega feels the glow on his cheeks flare up, not having any sort of retort for that and to hear it put so bluntly, really put things to perspective. He looks to the ground sheepishly, hoping he hadn’t caused too much distress for the eccentric tailor. 

“Reckless as always,” Tekotes chides, a harsh bark to his voice that causes Vega to flinch beside him. His shoulders slump slightly as he sighs, pointedly looking forward as he makes his next remark with surprising forbearance, “but your bladework has improved greatly since we last fought together.”

It throws Vega off guard completely, halting his stride momentarily as he processes the comment. Did he just...compliment him? He stares up at Tekotes who is decidedly not looking at him and stumbles through his words.  
“I-ah thank you?” 

“Don’t be. It’s purely observational. Your judgement to block that Ettin’s club was poor.”

Vega doesn’t take offense, in fact a small smile creeps onto his face that Tekotes would be impressed by anything he’s done. Thinking back on the Ettin encampment, if the Magister hadn’t stepped in, he wouldn’t have known what to do. He makes to thank the man but judging from his scowling demeanor he would most likely not appreciate the nicety so instead he opts to repay the sentiment.

“You were quite formidable as well. I did not know you could conjure weapons.” 

“A skill I picked up while delving into the Mystic Forge.” Tekotes tells him, “By tapping into the spectral plane I can bring forth a familiar object.” He lifts his hand to demonstrate, the tips of his glove fluctuate as though distorting reality before igniting into roaring blue flames. Vega stares mesmerised as a giant hammer glowing ghostly white fazes into existence by Tekotes’ side. With the flick of his wrist the weapon disperses.  
“I find my smithing hammer comes naturally, other things require some focus.”

Vega nods, taking the information in and recalls the way Tekotes created brilliant white-blue armaments out of thin air, bathed in divine flame. He remembers the Magister’s prowess with a greatsword, his muscular build swinging the blade with ease and that he possessed some form of magic but being able to summon a protective shield was about the extent of his skills. Nothing quite so powerful. 

“Maybe you could enlighten me on some developments of my own, Tekotes.” Fredrik chimes in, his curiosity peaked from the display. He packs away his journal and walks closer to the two Sylvari.  
“Lately I’ve been consumed by this powerful red aura when I fight, like a blanket of boiling lava that gives me immense strength.” He thinks back on the time when he had shattered a boulder with a single kick and looks intently at the Magister. With his pool of knowledge he must know something. “Why is that?”

Tekotes regards the Norn briefly, looking up at his inquisitive face and then forward in concentration as though he were cycling through a catacomb of information in his mind.  
“Just like how the spiritual essence of the Forge was the catalyst to unlocking my magic, perhaps your encounter with the tigers has done the same.” He deduces, tilting his head up to address Fredrik, “Facing a foe greater than yourself may have allowed you to tap into latent, primal abilities you were unconsciously training all your life.” 

Fredrik seems to take slight offense to that, mumbling something along the lines of “We’ll see who is greater than who” under his breath and Vega smirks at his petulance. 

“There are many a tale of warriors who have tapped into such strength.” Tekotes continues without breaking his stride, reciting the words clearly and concisely as if he were teaching a class, “They call it a ‘berserker’ state— a form that provides you with vast amounts of power but at the cost of leaving you blinded with rage.”

The Norn soaks in his words eagerly, pleased to have a name for this new-found technique and clenches a fist with determination. If he could learn to harness this power, the tigers won’t stand a chance.

Vega also reflects, applying the words to his own steadily growing power. He was never adept at any form of magic; his stealth and shadowstep the only skills in his arsenal that were remotely in that realm and even then he could only use them in finite intervals, his stealth wearing off after a few minutes at best. He put more trust in the speed of his legs, the aim of his bow and the sharpness of his blades but the exhilaration of pushing past his limits— scaling that cliff, fighting that tiger head-on— is more tempting than he’d like to admit. It felt good to know he could hold his own without the use of his shadows, at least for the time being. He remembers his strikes; fast and precise but with little force, relying more on the bow’s lightening effects to compensate for the lack of impact. Vega makes to open this discussion with Tekotes, perhaps work out some sort of training regiment but before he can get a word in, the Magister speaks up once more. 

“Many of those tales were cautionary.” Tekotes informs them, stopping to give Fredrik a stern, serious look.

“Do not allow emotion to cloud your judgement lest you do something you may regret.”

Vega gulps, the words dying in his throat. Even though Tekotes’ gaze is directed at Fredrik, he can’t help but feel those words were also aimed at him. He was being too complacent. Disillusioned. Assuming that things returned to how they used to be just because the Magister was willing to hold a conversation with him. 

_Do not mistake my civility for forgiveness._

That was what Tekotes had told him and his glow flares slightly at his foolishness. He slows his stride, walking quietly behind and stares out at the encroaching cliffside, throwing himself back to the task at hand. They had tigers to find, no time to wallow in things long gone.

“I will keep that in mind.” Fredrik nods curtly, watching curiously as Vega tenses and slinks slightly away from them, reverting back to how he was before Tekotes had shown up. It wasn’t hard to see the two had some sort of history and he has to wonder just what happened that had caused the bounty hunter to be so demure in the Magister’s presence. But now was not the time to be dredging up the past for his own curiosity. 

They continue along Venison Passage in relative silence, stopping at the easternmost border of Lornar’s Pass where the path cuts between two mountain ranges. stopping at the easternmost border of Lornar’s Pass where the path cuts through two mountain ranges, the difference in terrain between them is astounding in and of itself; to their right the lush green of meadows, tufts of long grass billows serenely in the wind with roots sprouting through the rocks above lining the cliffside with tiny hairs of soil and wood, to their left the cliffs are more jagged and rocky, nothing grows along it’s walls and further up there are sprinklings of white, a blanket of snow all the way to its peaks. 

“The cliff ends here.” Tekotes notes, “Perhaps your beasts have fled into Timberline Falls.”

“No,” Vega interjects, eyes scanning the rockwall meticulously until he spots it, “not that way.”

He follows the intricate pattern of rock and dirt along the cliff and hones in on the deep indents descending down the vertical decline; the scape of soil, the uproot of tendrils clipped short from being crushed under a heavy paw, the smoothness of rocks where fur has brushed the dirt away— signs that aren’t easily spotted along the haphazard terrain but to Vega they are as clear as day. The tigers scaled down this side of the mountain. He crouches low where the tracks end, hoping to find a print where the beasts must’ve landed and spots the deep grooves of dirt upheaved and left in a rush, headed in the direction of the neighbouring mountain range. Sure enough when he crosses over to the other cliff, he spots the trail of heavy imprints in the distance, darkened spots in the snow that clump together most likely from the tigers slipping along the treacherous path. 

“They went to Dredgehaunt Cliffs.” He turns to notify the two, Fredrik groaning at the prospect of traversing yet another cliff.

“Those mountains are inaccessible from here.” Tekotes advises, giving Vega a pointed look as though he expected him to start running up the mountain this instant and he wilts slightly under the accusation, glow flashing briefly conveying that the Magister wasn’t that far off.  
“They house a Dredge stronghold in the Tribulation Rifts. There’s only one way to get in and you’ll need help to do it.” 

 

The quiet serenity of the snow, white and undisturbed along the path to Dredgehaunt Cliffs, did not prepare them for the total chaos of grinding gears and oiled machinery churning and screeching keen through their ears as they veer left towards Tribulation Rifts. They are besieged by Dredge almost immediately, their scouts mounted high along the jagged rocks on constructions of twisted metal and timber, an ugly scar that cuts through the pristine snowy landscape. The large, industrial encampment connects one mountain to the another; a formidable barricade erected to prevent anyone coming close to the cliffs beyond and the underground city built within.

Tekotes brings up a barrier over their heads, shielding them from the barrage of bullets the Dredge are firing and begins sprinting across the field, intent on passing through the Dredge camp (the fastest possible route to their destination) with brute force. Fredrick wields his greatsword in hand, barreling through the guards by the entrance with a mighty swing. Vega surges forward and grabs the two by their forearms, summon his stealth to shroud them as a wave of reinforcements storm towards them. The Dredge scatter bewildered as their soldiers are sent flying left and right from an invisible force, too frenzied and panicked to notice the three set of footprints mixed in among the chaos that make a mad dash to the other side.

“Ha! Spirits that was fun, they didn’t know what hit em!” Fredrik laughs, patting Vega square on the back.

The force jostles him a bit but Vega gives the Norn a smile all the same. He’s even more surprised when Tekotes gives him an approving nod, pointing to the snowy mountains ahead.

“That’s where you need to be.” 

The entrance to the Dredge stronghold is cavernous; surrounded on all sides by high icy cliff walls and impaled with an assemblage of Dredge enginuity, a cluttered mish-mash of buildings and designs that only the mole-like people could make sense of, the most bizarre of which is the complex scaffolding stacked high enough to pass the top of the cliffs placed right out front. A small pocket on the opposite end of the site houses a makeshift camp with a gathering of Priory explorers manning stolen mortars pitted against the Dredge, the missiles sailing over a thick sheet of ice. Tekotes strides over to the woman barking overs, her Priory robes fluttering from the explosive aftershocks. 

“Magister Kathryn.” He greets, recognition washes over her face at his arrival.

“Magister Tekotes! Steward Gixx said you’d be coming soon.” The relief in her voice is plain to see but she quickly composes herself and straightens her stance to give him a proper briefing, “We’ve locked this choke point just out of range of their cannons, we’re in a good position to really hurt the Dredge from here.”

He nods, already aware of the situation and moves past her to the supply crates, “I will assist you on the forefront but first my associates and I need to get on that scaffolding. Can you provide cover fire?”

Kathryn blinks, her brows furrowed in confusion at the Magister’s request but she doesn’t question it, giving Vega and Fredrick a curious look before responding, “Our shield generators can help you get in, but not out.”

“That will suffice.” Tekotes rummages through the box and pulls out a simple greatsword, turning it in his hands to test its weight. 

“We’re running all the way up that?” Fredrik stares out at the scaffolding, even from this distance he can tell it’s as tall as any great hall.

“It has the least defenses, much easier than trying to scale the slopes.” Tekotes rationalises, walking back to the group, “Is stealthing a possibility?” 

“I’m afraid their rigs are motion-triggered,” the female Magister shakes her head grimacing at the memory that resurfaces, “found that one out the hard way.”

“Pity.” Tekotes quips, turning to to hand Vega a bundle of arrows, “Try not to get blown up.”

Vega takes them, baffled and stunned that Tekotes was willing to go with them. Clearly his duties lay here, helping his fellow Priory members deal with the Dredge and yet he chose to risk his life to get them where they needed to be. It was more than just civility at this point and Vega can’t help the question that rolls out of his mouth.

“Why are you helping us?” 

The Magister looks away in thought for a moment, scowling as though he were offended that they would think he’d just leave them to jump into the ravenous horde of Dredge but mulls over his next words carefully.  
“You can’t right a wrong when you’re dead.” He states, directing his magenta eyes to Vega’s, “Sometimes the tailor can be quite astute.”

A flood of thoughts come crashing into Vega’s mind at those words and what they imply. A chance to make amends. That they can get past this given time...time that Tekotes is now ensuring by accompanying them. By keeping him alive. It sends a shiver all the way to the tips of his leaves and he looks forward, face splitting into a grin. He really should to take Terabellum out for drinks. He schools his features into one of purpose; they must ascend to the top in order to reach the mountains beyond. The tigers are there, he can feel it.

As Magister Kathryn prepares the shield generators, Fredrik rolls his shoulders and stretches his legs, eyes brimming with determination. The scaffolding has seven storeys by his count, Dredge at every level of the towering complex but before that they had to run through the long expanse of ice being pelted by cannons. He pulls out his greatsword, getting into a starting position much like Tekotes and gives Vega a quick glance. It would seem the little bounty hunter is even more dead-set than he is, eyes gleaming red and sharp with his bow ready— whatever slump he had been in is no longer there at least as far as Fredrik can see and that is good enough for him.

“We’re ready for you, Magister!” Kathryn declares, eyes scanning the field for a lull in the onslaught. They would run on her signal.

“It’ll be a straight shot to the top,” Tekotes proclaims, staring ahead and bending low, “don’t stop for anything.”

When the closest line of missiles pelt the ground, she waves for them to go. Like the crack of a whip their boots crunch the icy ground and they lunge forward on a mad dash towards the Dredge.

As they sprint across the ice, the cannons reignite and rain fire upon them, the shield generators forming protective barriers over their heads keeps them safe but not from the waves of Dredge that come to meet them halfway, firearms and resonators locked on to their fast approaching figures.

Fredrik and Tekotes charge ahead, knocking them back with heavy swings while Vega draws his bow and waits for the shield to disperse, releasing arrows at the Dredge reloading the cannons, piercing through the smoke and rendering the bodies limp. They continue at this pace until they are close to the base of the scaffold, Tekotes looks back at Vega and he nods, already aware of what the Magister intends to do— they’ve done it thousands of times. 

The Guardian skids to a halt, bringing his greatsword over his shoulder to rest on his back and kneels on one knee, Vega rushes forward and as soon as his boots hit the sword, Tekotes stands up, launching him high above onto the second platform. As he sails through the air, he brings out his daggers and lands on top of an unsuspecting Dredge, blades sheathed inside its throat preventing it from screeching in agony. He pulls the daggers out hard, swinging his arm to splash the Dredge behind, blinding it with the blood of its fallen comrade. It reels back momentarily stunned but too late, Vega’s blade already hilt-deep into its skull. He shrouds in stealth before the others swarm to their corpses, making quick work of another four. 

Fredrik races up the ramp with a roar, easily cleaving his way through the packed crowd while Tekotes secures their rear, conjuring his hammer to bash the Dredge clambering to the sides. They convene and clear out the second platform, dealing with the next wave in much the same fashion; Vega shadowsteps ahead, the soldiers at the end of the line caught off-guard by his backstab, effectively pincering the mob of Dredge as Fredrick barrels through them and Tekotes deals with the stragglers. 

By the sixth storey their strikes become less voracious, Fredrik finding it easier to simply swing his sword like a bat and let the height of the fall take its course. There are barely any Dredge this high up, the altitude dwindling their air more of a threat than the mole-people at this point. Vega’s breaths are ragged, arms trembling with exhaustion, even Tekotes has to lean slightly on a support beam to recuperate. Vega blinks blearily at the blinding white snow of the mountaintop, they were so close just— 

A patch of the snow begins to shift, Vega furrows his brows, not quite sure if it’s just his oxygen-depraved mind playing tricks on him but there is something definitely moving along the mountainside. He hones in on it as it passes under a shadow and his body jolts at the shape illuminated in the darkness; the white tiger stalks past, it’s pale orange stripes almost invisible on the pearly white of its fur that blends so seamlessly into the mountain that he almost loses sight of it once it’s out of the shade. He inches closer to the edge of the platform to follow its movement, Fredrik and Tekotes look on quizzically. The white tiger slinks into a crevice in the rocks and where one is the other must not be far behind.

“The tigers are close.” Vega tells the two, his words spurring them into action.

The few Dredge waiting on the top floor have built a small barricade of planks and crates, aiming their rifles at the ramp but it is all in vain as the bullets ricochet off of the Magister’s shield and their blockade is shattered with the slam of his hammer. Fredrik slices through them before they can scatter, their armour doing nothing to protect their chunky, stout necks from his swing. Soon enough they’ve secured the top of the scaffolding, standing adjacent to a wide plateau on the icy peaks. Vega draws his bow, releasing an arrow in the mountainside and shadowstepping to the wall with nary a footprint. He pulls out the arrow carefully and waits for the others to cross.

The gap would be too far to jump if not for the long wooden beam (presumably the makings of a crane) jutting out towards the cliff. Fredrik tests out the timber, adding weight on it with his boots and it gives an ominous creak. Right. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and sprints for it, the wood cracking beneath his feet with each stomp but he keeps running, tells himself not to look down and lunges. He sails over the gap and starts to drop fast, just an arms length away from the edge. Fredrik heart stops for a split second before he feels something solid slam into his back, propelling him the rest of the way. He lands in a rolled heap, shaking off the snow matted to him and grins at the floating hammer that disperses.

Tekotes disappears from sight for a moment coming back with the dripping severed head of a Dredge in his hand. Fredrik’s eyes go wide, panicking a little when the Guardian lobs the chunk of flesh over to him but then suddenly he is blinded by a flash of white. Blue flames engulf the decapitated skull and Tekotes stands nonchalantly in its place. Well that’s just cheating.

As he begins to get up, Fredrik feels a distant rumbling beneath his palms quickly encroaching and shouts a warning too late, a Dredge larger than any they’ve seen thus far tunnels out from under them, dirt and snow burst all around. Tekotes brings up an arm instinctively to shield his eyes from the debris, the Dredge locking onto him immediately and swings its massive jagged mace over its head directly onto him but the weapon doesn’t connect. 

A grunt. A screech. The sound of a heavy body crashing into the ground. Silence. 

The dust subsides, revealing Vega looming over its limp body, arrow wedged deep between its eyes. Fredrik stands up and claps him on the back with an amused bark.

“Raven’s wings, you were fast!”

Tekotes stares scrutinously at the wall Vega used to be, a sizable gap to make in such a short time and notes the sizable crack along the rock wall that wasn’t there before. He scowls at the Dredge’s armour; a deep indent where Vega had landed, morphing the deldrimor steel like it was made of clay.

“You’ve gotten stronger.” He comments, Vega smirks at the observation.

“Perhaps fighting the tigers has benefitted me as well.” 

The Magister nods absently, his features scowled as though he was still ruminating on other things, gazing over the fallen Dredge. Recognition flashes over his features, recalling this particular Dredge from their files.

“This is a high-ranking Commissar, they will know we’re here soon.”

They make haste towards the snowy white walls, Vega scanning near where he last saw the white tiger and comes upon a tunnel lined with ice. The base is smeared with browning red all the way down into the darkness, parts of the dried blood rubbed off indicating that the white tiger has been using this path frequently without its partner. It must be too injured to move.

“The tigers have settled in the caverns, this tunnel should lead us there.” 

“Well what are we waiting for?” Fredrik grins, a little more than enthused to finally have them on the ropes once more. Victory is so close he can taste it.

Vega fastens his quiver tight, not wanting to lose any ammunition in the descent and prepares to slip into the tunnel when Tekotes seizes him by the arm and pins him with a serious look, his voice weighted with urgency.

“I don’t believe your new powers are coincidental, Vega.” 

He frowns at Tekotes, not even sure what he means but the Magister presses on, “Concordia was a disaster and it only confirmed one thing: Mordremoth has truly awakened.”

His right arm thrums at the mention of its name, eye blown wide as he tries to process the information; another Elder dragon so soon. Did they not just defeat Zhaitan not so long ago?  
_No..._ His mind whispers to him. _You were not there._

“That is what the Summit is for— to unite and defeat him. It will be at the Grove...you should be there.” Tekotes emphasises. Vega understands the implication perfectly, that for some reason the Magister thought they needed him but he is wrong. 

“I have a job to do.” Vega replies, pulling his arm away and forcing the shakes to stop, “The Pact can handle it.”

For a moment all is silent, he turns to head for the tunnel when Tekotes’ voice pierces through like a sharpened knife to the gut,  
“When will you stop running away?”

That stops him in his tracks, his eyes boiling over with indignation. He was not running away from anything, There was never anything to run from. He was wrong.  
“It is not my fight. It never was.”

Tekotes looks absolutely livid, his response seemed to have snapped something inside the Magister— opened up a floodgate long been waiting to burst, “Why are you letting that stop you from doing what is right?”

“I— “

A reverberating quake, sends the ground trembling as another Dredge emerges but Tekotes swings his greatsword to block the incoming attacks. He doesn’t go on the offensive, seemingly toying with the mole-man as he lets out his frustrations.

“Is that why you never came back?”

Another parry. The force of his swings sent the weapon out of the Dredges hand. Vega watches Tekotes hack away at the enemy, anger instantly dissipating the moment the question is uttered and replaced by immense guilt. He never told him. He never told anyone.

“Is that why the only way I heard you made it out of Orr was from drunken rumours and hearsay?”

In his rage, blue flames ignite along the blade and he ends the duel with an upward slash, the Dredge screeching as the flames spread rapidly across its entirety. It rolls desperately in the snow but the magic fire does not go out.  
As the burning flesh turns into ash, Tekotes finally whirls around and the look of hurt and betrayal on his face, shakes Vega to the core.

“Is that why you let me think you were dead this whole time?”

“Tekotes…” He has no idea what to say or if anything he could say would ever make up for what he put his oldest friend through. 

The Magister composes himself, clicking his tongue agitatedly at letting his emotions get the better of him and turns back around to face the incoming Dredge tunneling up, not expecting an answer, “Just go. I’ll hold them off.”

Vega wants to protest, stay here and talk things through. Explain himself to Tekotes. But they are out of time. He walks over to the tunnel, giving him one last regretful look before coasting down the icy tunnel. Fredrik makes to follow suit, staying silent through the entire exchange but pauses when he hears his name.

“Fredrik.” The Norn turns to Tekotes, surprised that he would call for him. The Magister looks him in the eye and leaves a parting request, “Keep an eye on that idiot.”

Giving him a resolute nod, Fredrik grabs hold of the sides and slides down the tunnel into Tribulation Caverns.


	7. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit different, in the sense that I wrote it entirely from Fredrik's perspective but hopefully you get a kick out of it any way, hey?  
> What's a story without some creative liberties~
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

Fredrik holds onto the sides of the slippery tunnel, the metal of his armour plating screeches as it scrapes across the ice but does little to slow down the frictionless descent into Tribulation Caverns. Troubling enough on its own but coupled with the fact that the Norn can barely see what’s in front of him in this darkened tube brings a more pressing matter to his mind. When does it end? What if it leads nowhere? What if Vega is laying at the bottom, a pile of broken twigs from the sudden stop and his boots were to crush the man into splinters? His thoughts become steadily more delirious until he spots a light at the end of the tunnel like he’s come to meet his makers. 

_Too soon for that._ Fredrik digs his heels into the ice hard, pressing his hands more firmly onto the sides to try and slow down, the screeching of his armour almost deafening as he braces for impact. 

With a surprised ‘Ooff!’ his feet meet the earth and carries his body careening overhead to land face first in a pile of snow. Fredrik stays there for a moment, groaning as his head reels from the sudden loss of momentum and feels the solid tapping of a leathery boot on his shoulder.

“Were you planning to bring the whole cave down with all that noise?” Vega raises a brow, looking down at the Norn who opens one of his amethyst eyes to blink blearily at him. 

Fredrik huffs in response, getting on all fours to shake the snow off his person much like a dolyak would before standing up and taking in the sights.

The cave walls are pulsing with a blue bioluminescence, lighting up the whole expanse from its towering jagged icy ceiling all the way down to its gaping treacherous spike-filled base. His breath comes out in puffs of chilled smoke, taking a particularly lengthy gulp at how far down the cavern goes and how one slip from the slippery platforms could spell their doom. He does however take solace in the distinctly Sylvari-shaped imprint, scraped into a pile a distance in front of him.

“I see you didn’t have a perfect landing either.” He grins down at Vega who rolls his eyes and marches onwards. 

The cavern begins with a series of plateaus, tall stretches of ice that have pooled and flattened over time, raising up from the dark blue beyond, the only indication of its height from the dimming blue glow of the ice walls around them. The structures lead to a thick pillar on the other side, connecting the ceiling to the ground in a wide blanket of ice, the corner of it leading further in. So that’s their goal.

Fredrik tests the strength of the ground beneath, stomping hard and finds with the crunch of his boots that it holds solid. He steps back to give himself room for a running start and sprints, launching himself to the next platform with a heavy thud. The sound bounces across the walls rustling loose small fragments of ice from above that patter softly down into the abyss. Vega’s steps are lighter as he follows, leaping across the gap with nary a sound, the subtle clacking of his arrows inside his quiver the only thing that gives away his position. 

They continue at this pace with little trouble, reaching the final platform before the pillar where the gap is much, much farther. Fredrik looks down at the edge of the platform then to the thinner sheet of flat ice sticking from the pillar with slight apprehension. He isn’t sure he can make the jump and if he couldn’t there’s no doubt that the smaller man would have some trouble as well. 

“That’s a pretty long way across.” He remarks with a whistle, turning to look down at Vega when an idea springs into his head. “How about we try that move?” The man raises a brow waiting for him to clarify. He gestures with his thumb to his greatsword, “You could use me as a ramp, like you did with Tekotes.”

The mention of the Magister’s name dampens his mood considerably, Fredrik can tell as much with the way Vega clicks his tongue in agitation, drawing his bow taut to release an arrow into the pillar and shadowstepping to it.

“Ah. Right then.” He quips to noone, watching Vega rip the arrow from its mark and stomp around the corner in a huff.

For a moment Fredrik isn’t sure what to do with himself, looking down into the darkened depths not helping his nerves in the slightest. He begins rummaging through his supplies, thinking perhaps of fashioning a grapple of some sort to close the distance but he has no such luck. He unfastens his greatsword and tests the sturdiness of the weapon, balancing his weight onto it. Maybe I can pole-vault across? He really considers it until he takes note of the hooked end of his blade and recalls the mechanism Tekotes had implemented. At first he had thought it was a fun gimmick, something the weaponsmith would forge purely because he could but the gears in his head start churning and an idea so ludicrous crosses his mind that it leaves a troubling grin on his features.

He steps back to the other end of the platform, giving himself as much of a runway as he can and sprints. His boots crunch unnervingly on the ice but he pays little mind when he reaches the edge and lunges, leaping a significant distance over the gap but not the whole way, feeling his stomach drop as he begins to plummet. 

The whirling of the stabilizing matrix thrums loud in his ears, hoisting the greatsword over his head, he grips the hilt tight and swings, sending the blade hurdling up towards the platform where the hooked end sheathes into the icy floor. When he hears the weapon make contact he reels the blade back in, his shoulder screaming in protest as it is all but yanked right out of its sockets from the force of the pull, hilt meeting blade but with his other arm outstretched he grabs onto the platform and breathes a sigh of relief.

Fredrik rounds the corner and almost knocks Vega off his feet, the smaller man steps back with a bewildered look before schooling his features and stashing away the rope in his hands. 

“Worried about me, were you?” He grins down at Vega who doesn’t deign him with a response instead turning back around and continuing through the passage.

The tunnel opens up to a snowy slope, the sun glares strongly through the jagged icy ceiling but when Fredrik squints through the blinding light he can see the platforms at the very top—and the patches of red left stained on white. There are rock formations jutting from the cliff that lead directly to the flat platforms above but the constant tremors inciting the crash of stalactites echoes through the chamber, the pieces reforming instantaneously to fall anew; it is a perpetual chain of jagged ice that makes the accent more treacherous than it has any right being.

They wind their way cautiously to the top, hugging the wall, waiting for the ice to cascade then jumping to the next. A steady rhythm begins to form and it is now that Fredrik decides to break the silence.

“So, we’re not going to talk about what happened back there?” 

The question halts Vega for a moment before he continues stiffly.  
“There is nothing to discuss.”

Normally Fredrik wouldn’t push, content to leave things where they lay if the hunter did not wish to share but he remembers Tekotes words, his quiet request before he entered these caverns and finds he cannot back down this time.

“Tekotes was quite adamant about you going to that Summit. He doesn’t seem like the type to make calls like that for just anyone.” 

“That-” Vega raises his voice, the set of his jaw tight as he reels back in, “That is none of your concern.”

Fredrik bristles at his words, brow furrowing determined and equally as agitated. Before Vega can make the next jump he steps forward and grabs him by the forearm, the twiggy limb squeezed easily in his large hand. He holds his other arm over his head, balancing his greatsword over them both to buffer the ice that pelts down onto their position and pins Vega with a stern look.

“You made it my concern when you missed that shot.”

That gets his attention, the arm in Fredrik’s hand going rigid and the chill that settles between them has nothing to do with the ice that surrounds them. There is a defiance in Vega’s eyes, an internal struggle that wants to lash out at him but reels back because the Sylvari knows that he is right. He can tell the hunter is distracted and that can only spell disaster going forward. Letting go of the arm that falls limp to Vega’s side, he starts again in a calmer tone.

“You’ve been acting strange ever since we fought those tigers on that cliff and I’m not stupid enough not to notice that whatever’s going on with you and Tekotes has something to do with it as well.”

Vega doesn’t dispute it, a mix of resignation and contemplation etched on his hardened features and Fredrik isn’t sure if he’s made his point clear enough— isn’t sure the man will open up to him. It isn’t just because the magister had asked it of him, he realises, he is genuinely concerned for this man and he isn’t sure when the barrier of client and server had shifted (perhaps when Vega had all but teared out a limb to take that bite meant for his neck) but he doesn’t want to see him in such turmoil, not if he can help it. 

“We’ll need to rely on each other if we want to kill these beasts, that’s what you told me.” He places a hand gently on Vega’s shoulder, his eyes unwavering when the man looks up at him, “I need you to be in top-form when we fight them again and for that I need you to tell me what’s going on.” He gives the shoulder a comforting squeeze, with his brows furrowed he utters the next statement with confidence and assertion.

“You can trust me.”

For a while there is nothing but the harsh clink of ice shattering on his greatsword, but they do not move from their spot and he waits, staring down into the depths of Vega’s blood red eyes, trying to see a flash, something, anything that indicates that this assurance is not one-sided. Vega looks away, brows furrowed not in agitation but weary acceptance. The shoulder beneath his hand slumps and the words breathe out quietly from his lips. 

“If I do not speak of my past, it is not because I do not trust you, Fredrik.” Vega pulls away, turning his back to Fredrik to assess the path ahead. “I am simply...not proud of it.” 

Fredrik deflates, watching Vega continue onward with a bittersweet twang in his chest. He is enthused, delighted even to know that they trusted one another, an unspoken bond pulled to the surface and left to bask but he is also disheartened, that despite that admission, Vega will not be sharing anything more with him. At least right at this moment. He lets out a sigh, thinking that’s about all he’s going to get from the hunter but is surprised when the man’s voice echoes across the cave once more. 

“Tekotes is still clinging to that past, the dream that we...that _I_ blindly devoted myself to.”

There is a small woop of triumph that soars in Fredrik’s chest. Finally, _finally_ , he’s getting somewhere. He doesn’t voice his elation, doesn’t make a sound, instead he follows the hunter along the snowy slope with a bounce to his step and a smirk that he’s thankful Vega can’t see. Fredrik composes himself, clearing his throat of any enthusiasm and urges him to continue.

“Tell me.”

They follow the path in a rhythm- waiting for the stalactites to fall and then jumping to the next jut of rocks. The timing is almost methodic, Fredrik barely gives it much thought after the first couple of jumps, the feeling very reminiscent of festival games the Asura love to play. He is not paying much attention to his surroundings anyway, too focused on following Vega as closely as possible, not because the man is taking the most efficient route (although that is a bonus) but because he doesn’t want to miss any part of Vega’s story.

“In my Dream, I wielded a bow.” That does not surprise Fredrik in the slightest, the man has been using daggers for most of the journey but he can tell Vega favours the bow. And probably why Tekotes had one ready for him.

“It possessed powerful magic— magic strong enough to vanquish any foe. I dreamt of defeating dragons by the Pact Commander’s side with it.” A bow that can kill dragons. He wonders if such a weapon even exists, it seems too good to be true. _But if it does exist I’d like to take a crack at Jormag’s tooth with it._ It's an amusing thought, one he had intended to lighten the mood with but the tension returns to Vega’s shoulders and he continues in a much grimer tone, “But there was more to my vision.” 

“I saw airships rain down like fire from the sky, thousands perishing in the crash— I saw the Commander, facing an Elder Dragon alone amidst the chaos and _losing._ ” Vega emphasises as though the thought is unfathomable and Fredrik has to admit, with the defeat of Zhaitan and Scarlet Briar on her belt the Pact Commander seems unstoppable, almost untouchable or so the stories surrounding her say. Still, it is hard to grasp the scale of devastation that a number in the thousands gives off, he can’t imagine it but the way Vega’s voice wavers gives him enough of an impression. The hunter stops for longer this time as though pulled back into the memory and Fredrik lifts his blade to cover the incoming ice again.

“I ran as fast as I could but when I got to her— the bow vanished from my grasp...twisting and changing into a great shadowy beast.” He looks down at Vega’s outstretched arm, fist clenched tight as the tremors he’s grown familiar to seeing begin to take hold of the hunter’s arm. _Does it affect him that much? Is he still afraid?_  
“I fell into its darkness, haunted by the image of unyielding yellow eyes staring back at me in the void.”

“That sounds more like a nightmare to me.” Fredrik remarks when Vega goes silent, his voice breaking whatever trance had fallen over the hunter and the tremors subside. 

“You say you saw this before you were born.” He tries to wrap his head around the concept. From what he’s gleaned from Vega during their journey he knows Sylvari emerge into this world fully-grown with predetermined knowledge. Apparently that includes visions of the future. Fredrik is skeptical and there are still some things about this tale that he can’t quite grasp. “You’re seven years old…wasn’t the Pact founded two years ago? How could you dream about the Pact Commander when she wasn’t even alive yet? Did you foresee their union?”

“In the beginning I could not make sense of what I saw, I had no idea who the woman in my dream was or what the airships were, only that when I awoke I was told that this was a vision of the future and my Wyld Hunt— to find the bow and prevent that calamity from ever coming to pass.”  
A Wyld Hunt. A sacred calling. The chosen few tasked with a great deed. Still...Seems like an awful lot to put on someone’s shoulders after just being born. Frankly, he knows very little about the Dream of Dreams, talk of pre-written destinies and purpose seems ludicrous in Fredrik’s mind. He is a Norn— he paves his own path in life, takes destiny into his own hands but for the Sylvari it seems to be vastly different. He comes to understand a little of what Lani had told him. _“They can’t stop thinking about what must be done. I hear that the call gnaws at you and climbs your soul like a parasitic vine.”_ If his first waking memory was seeing death all around him, he would have done everything in his power to prevent it as well.

“It had been interpreted that in order to obtain the bow I must first find and defeat the beast.” 

“And that’s when you began your travels.” Fredrik remembers the conversation, the many masters that Vega had trained under to hone his skills. But now he understands the need. 

“Yes,” Vega composes himself and resumes traversing the cave, “After my training I began my search, eventually enlisting the help of the Durmand Priory.” At the mention of the Order Fredrik perks up, coming to the part he’s most curious of, “Tekotes was but an avid scholar drawn to my hunt. Said he wanted to write a book on it.” He hasn’t known the magister for that long but- _That does sound like him._ He pats the side of his satchel, feeling the solid weight of his own journal yet to be complete and a smirk tugs at his face all the same. 

“I did not think much of it at the time,” the hunter presses on, “he could handle himself and I was not opposed to an extra pair of eyes.” There is a pause to his words as Vega comes to a stop, either to wait for him or to reminiscence he isn’t sure.  
“We were inseparable.” He almost catches a smile on Vega’s face as he leaps for another platform. 

“You fight well together.” Fredrik doesn’t have to imagine it. He’s seen the way they move around one another firsthand and knows they’ve been doing it for a long time, how attune they are to one another even after Wolf knows how long apart. 

Vega hums in agreement, then proceeds in a souring tone, “We scoured ruins, tombs, remote islands, every inch of Tyria—all in search of the beast with yellow eyes but to no avail. Years of research and yet we were still grasping at straws.” He entertains the idea that perhaps the strait-laced scholar had only wanted his notes as a reminder of their adventures long past but the thought perishes quickly, the man seemed too pragmatic for the sentiment. 

“Well it’s no wonder,” Fredrik scoffs, “seems like all you had to go on was an eye colour.” It’s laughable how specific the vision had been and then so vague in what Fredrik believes is the most crucial part. He would’ve pulled out all the hairs in his beard trying to find _that_ needle hiding in the world’s largest haystack. 

“Indeed.” Vega gives him an odd look as though he had forgotten that Fredrik or perhaps Norn in general were not only passionate storytellers but also keen listeners, “Then a coalition to fight against Zhaitan formed. Tekotes felt there must have been a correlation between my hunt and this united force so we joined the Pact right away.”  
_And he was right._ Fredrik wants to say but doesn’t, knowing there must be more to it than that.

“That’s when you met the Pact Commander,” Fredrik supplies instead, “just as your dream foretold.” Vega once told him that the visions were but one of many paths but so far it seemed that it was following this one to the letter. So then what went wrong? 

“I did not see her until we were already well underway to assaulting Zhaitan itself. There was much to do and we were spread thin.” Fredrik brows scrunch in confusion. How is it that the man went about joining without recognising one of its key figures? But he doesn’t presume to know how large-scale organisations operate; the Pact were newly formed and from the myriad of bases established that he’s been made privy to (mostly from Runkir’s incessant letters) he has no doubt that things may have been chaotic.

They’ve scaled most of the icy slope, the flat snow-laden platform at the top only a few metres away but Vega takes a quick turn, ducking into a small alcove to escape the onslaught of ice that plummets to the ground faster at this height. Fredrik could easily shelter them beneath his greatsword as he has been doing but decides to wait, noticing that Vega is not watching the falling ice and gauging the timing for their next jump like he had thought. Instead the man faces inwards with a pensive look that aged his features and spoke softly, the regret hollowing out his tibre.

“By the time I saw her, we were ready to deploy at Fort Trinity. I knew then, just as the Commander was boarding a craft I had foreseen to crash that it was the moment I was born to prevent. The airships were destined to fall, the bow still eluded me and I could do nothing to prevent it.” 

In the shade of the alcove Vega’s glow carves bright red lines against his bark, the light sputtering erratically with his uneven breaths as he’s pulled back in the moment. The moment it all went wrong. It surprises Fredrik the way desperation gripped at the hunter’s flickering eyes, the emotion so overwhelming it causes Vega to shake. He’s only ever seen him look like this once- when he missed the shot. 

“The hopelessness I felt—the fear of my failure...I will not make excuses for my actions but at the time I thought I saw it—the yellow-eyed beast and I chased it. Tekotes tried to stop me but the timing- it was too— ” Vega looks up at him for a moment, the anguish in his eyes making him look younger than Fredrik has ever seen him before something pulls him back. He comes to his senses and reigns himself back in, dragging his gaze down slowly to his trembling arm.

“I...do not remember much of what follows. There was an explosion and I awoke with my right arm missing...burnt to ash.” He grips the limb tightly through his leaves, forcing the tremors to subside with a weary sigh, “It has not been the same since.”

 _You had your arm blown off._ The thought should not surprise him as much as it did. The tremors have not gone unnoticed after all. He remembers Lani recovering from a similar wound; the roots already taking shape inside her latticed prosthetic and has to marvel at the Sylvari’s uncanny regenerative abilities. Even still, it sends a phantom jolt up his own arm and a pang of sympathy to spike in his chest. 

“But the Pact succeeded.” Fredrik breaks the silence. 

The airships did not fall. There was no calamity. The Pact defeated Zhaitan and Tyria rejoiced—and amidst the merriment Vega was alone, dazed and confused in the middle of Orr with nothing but an egregious injury and the weight of complete and utter failure to show for it. Maybe it is because he is a Norn, part of a prideful and stubborn folk, but he doesn’t have to ask why Vega had chosen not to return. He isn’t sure he’d be able to either. 

“Yes,” Vega finishes, peering out at the icy slopes, “and the Pact will succeed again.”

The implication is stark and heavy in the air as Fredrik tries to process the entirety of Vega’s tale; could fate be so cruel? To have the culmination of your life’s work be all for nothing? To be given a vision of the future only to have it be meaningless?  
_“The future is uncertain. There is no guarantee that what we see will ever come to fruition whether we participate in it or not.”_  
Perhaps Vega had been right. The rational part of him agrees, there is just no feasible way that one person could affect the tide of a battle so monumentally and it is foolish to think otherwise. But the hopeful side of him, the part of him that feels there must be more to his story than simply being misled gravitates to the magister’s words, steadfast and adamant.

“What if Tekotes is right?” Fredrik brings out in the open, “A dragon _has_ resurfaced.”

Vega gives him a weary, slightly disappointed look and shakes his head with a bitter scoff, “Don’t you start.”  
Seemingly wanting to end the conversation there Vega starts the ascent anew, leaping out from the alcove onto the next platform before the ice shatters but Fredrik is not convinced. 

“Why did you become a bounty hunter then?” His voice reverberates loudly over the sound of shattering ice. Vega’s actions contradict his words; the fact that even after realising the dream had lead him astray, the man chose to go into the Shiverpeaks and fight creatures meant something, he’s sure of it. 

The juts of stone become increasingly smaller as they reach higher and higher, so much so that Fredrik has trouble planting both his feet onto the platforms, sticking tight to the slippery walls for balance. Vega has no such trouble, his steps light and fast bouncing across the rocks to the rhythm of clattering ice.  
Soon the ceiling opens, allowing light to pool at the top and the ice is replaced with a thick snow blanket. Vega is only a few jumps away from reaching the top and it is here, when the ice ceases to crack and fall does he give pause and responds. 

“After my arm had regrown I wanted to hone my skills; the bounties were challenging enough.” Fredrik cranes his neck up, listening to Vega’s voice reverberating through the cave. There is a nonchalance to it but Fredrik knows better; the man had made a name for himself, continued on this path for two years—that _had_ to mean something. 

“If it really was just that, you could have gone anywhere to train.” Fredrik throws back, “But you chose the Shiverpeaks- chose to fight notoriously strong animals.” He thinks for a moment that he is being too presumptuous but the words have already come out, and the nudging feeling that he’s getting somewhere-that Vega hasn’t interjected or argued back yet spurs him to continue, “Is it really not because deep down...you’re still trying to find the beast in your dream?”

Fredrik lets the question linger; piecing together all that he has learnt about the man before him it is the only conclusion he could come to, a smile creeping to his face when Vega’s glow flashes for a split second and that miniscule tell lets him know he’s hit the right mark.  
Drawing his greatsword once more, he activates the sigil and flings the blade high, sailing past Vega and hooking onto the cliffedge up top. The matrix whirls and with a grunt Fredrik is pulled along with the momentum, landing squarely on his feet. He kneels over the edge and extends a hand to the bewildered man below.

“You haven’t truly lost hope.” Fredrik flashes his teeth in a wide grin like he’s discovered a well-kept secret and looking down at the hunter’s expression he thinks perhaps he has. He can tell Vega wants to say something, a retort or a bark of denial before thinking otherwise.

“I suppose a part of me still clings to the past as well.” Vega reaches up to take his hand and with that admission, that hand firmly grasping his own, Fredrik feels like he’s won. He hoists the man up easily, not because he’s about half his size (although there is that too) but getting through to him, finally getting answers gives his limbs newfound strength.

They stand at the edge of the highest plateau; graying skies bathe the top of Tribulation Caverns with a blinding white and at its peak there is but one place left for the beasts to hide. Fredrik looks on into the tunneling abyss, and can’t help imagining a pair of gleaming yellow eyes staring back in that darkness. 

“And the tigers…?” It’s been a question nudging at the back of his head even before Lani had enlightened him about what being a Valiant entailed, ever since Vega had taken this job for naught but a bottle of nectar.

There is a reluctance still but Vega follows his gaze and knows as well as he does that after all this there is nothing to hide. “I had a feeling,” the hunter confesses, clutching his arm out of reflex, “but my instincts have betrayed me before.”

Fredrik nods, placing a hand on Vega’s shoulder and is pleased to find it does not tremble as he had expected it to. “Thank you, for sharing your story with me.” It occurs to him that this is perhaps the first time Vega has told anyone about what had happened to him and the privilege brings a smile to his face. He looks into Vega’s eyes, the crimson sheen to them bold and focused—the clearest he’s seen them since the battle on the Delves, “Feeling better?”

“Lighter.” 

Something akin to a smile almost plays on the Sylvari’s face if not for his next words, a curling teasing grin as he bends down to Vega’s eye level. “Then, would you say talking about it helped?”

“Don’t push it.” Vega rolls his eyes though the annoyance doesn’t quite reach his features when Fredrik lets out a chuckle and sets his mind.

“When we are done with this hunt, I will help you find that bow.”

“Why?” Vega frowns, “I am not in active pursuit of it and it may not exist in the first place.”

“It might not be as you dreamed it, but you believe that it exists and I believe you—It’s what friends do.” Fredrik states with a nonchalant shrug, “Just think of it as another epic chapter to my legend.”

Vega gives him a perplexed look as though he had not put much thought in what comes after all this, focus snapped back to the task at hand. “Very well.” 

With the crashing of icicles echoing behind them, they face the cave once more and what lies beyond the shadows. Vega shifts from Fredrik’s grasp, lifting his arm to take an arrow from his quiver, “One of them is gravely injured,” he fastens some items from his pouch onto the arrowhead, “The plan is the same as before: I will draw them out and distract one, with any luck you should be able to kill the other.”

“Divide and conquer.” Fredrik takes hold of his greatsword and stands at the ready, lifting his chin in a mocking huff, “And it won’t be luck that fells the beast.”

“Get ready.”

Vega nocks the arrow into place, drawing the bow fully with a deep breath. His form is precise and statuesque as he aims for the cave entrance and sets loose. The sound is piercing against the dull static of cascading ice, like the howl of hollow wind it screeches in the dark and disappears into its depths.

The silence weighs heavy as they wait with bated breath for the arrow to strike and Fredrik thinks amusingly for a moment that perhaps the cave is but another tunnel, that they would have to chase the beasts even further but the thought is broken soon after with a faint spark in the darkness and the subsequent explosion that causes the plateau to shudder. Black smoke billows from within and soon something emerges.

In a blur of white, one tiger leaps from the cave baring its fangs in a vicious snarl and barricades the entrance with its massive body. The other remains a mystery. It has been several days since their last encounter, could it have succumbed to its wounds? Fredrik does not get to entertain such ideas for long. The beast rolls its shoulders and bends low, a predatory crouch as it readies to pounce. He has yet to fight this one but somehow Fredrik can tell, perhaps from its leaner form, that it is more agile than its partner. His swings are powerful but slow, a poor match but there is no fear when he grips the hilt of his blade tighter—not when they outnumber it. 

Vega lets loose a succession of arrows, forcing the tiger to move out of its defensive position and although some wedge deep into its thick hide, the arrows do very little to impede its charge. It lunges straight for them and they break apart to opposite sides, dividing its attention. It is only natural that it swerves towards the smaller of the two, its jaws open poised to tear into bark. Only its fangs meet with metal and the arcane crystals on the Sylvari’s bow thrum to life, sending out a shockwave that sends the tiger reeling.

Fredrik moves in, swinging his greatsword in a downward arch that dredges the snow beneath as the tiger dodges away and swipes at him instead. He brings his blade forward, bracing the slashes like a shield. The force of each hit is not as heavy as the other tiger’s but the strikes force him back all the same. Before the strain becomes too great he rolls to the side, causing the tiger to stumble as it misses and aims for its legs. His greatsword slices through air, like the tiger had anticipated the move and jumped, springing forward with its claws into Fredrik’s space. His swing has left him open and he tries to pull back, not sure if he’s gained enough distance before his vision is clouded with smoke. 

The explosive arrow bursts from the tiger’s flank, halting its momentum and sends it to rolling into the snow. Fredrik coughs and sputters, the soot getting into his throat but he finds he can’t complain when he looks back at Vega in the distance and then to the tiger lifting itself weakly, its eyes dazed and stance wobbly. They have it on the ropes now.

It must also sense the tide of the battle, Fredrik thinks when the tiger comes to and gauges them both with a cautious step back. It is a stalemate, one that none of them are willing to break, their eyes locked on target. He blinks first and the tiger whirls into action, kicking the ground to blanket their sight with snow.

“Bear’s breath!” Fredrik curses, looking frantically for the tiger when his vision clears and spots it easily amongst the jagged grey rocks, scaling to the peak. They were going to lose it. Again. He launches from his spot and makes to give chase, “Oh no you don—”

“Fredrik!” 

He stops in his tracks, head snapping to Vega rushing towards him with his bow slung on his back and his daggers clasped in each hand. He won’t make it up there in time. But Vega can. Fredrik isn’t sure how, but something clicks in his mind and he knows what the man is asking of him. It’s crazy, reckless, stupid even—exactly how Fredrik would do it.

The stabilising matrix at his hilt whirls as he handles the blade in one hand outstretched, waiting for Vega to dash by his peripheral before he flexes and throws the blade forward. Tethered to the hilt, the blade sails rigid and true much like a fishing reel, providing a stable platform for which the Sylvari can use. Vega leaps from the ground, the snow billows as his boots launch and plant onto Fredrik’s sword, the force of his legs pushing off sends the blade off trajectory but it has done its job. 

Fredrik calls the weapon back and watches with a manic grin as Vega pulls his daggers over his head and swings down, sheathing the knives deep into the tiger’s back. Vega latches on tight, keeping the blades in place as the tiger thrashes. The beast roars, its limbs locked in shock and soon its grip on the rocks loosens, sending them both crashing back down to the plateau with a thunderous boom and Fredrik’s heart stops. Even with the snow buffering their fall there is no way Vega with his small frame could come out unscathed from beneath six hundred pounds of pure muscle. 

When the snow billows back to the floor it is almost hard to tell where they had fallen, the white fur camouflaged with their surroundings but soon the tiger stirs, rolling to its feet with a weary limp, the daggers gleaming in the light still protruding from its shoulder blades. Fredrik’s eyes widen at the figure laying in the snow, thankful that the body remains in tact and not reduced to splinters as he had feared but Vega’s eyes remain shut, no doubt rendered unconscious from the fall. He acts without thought, racing towards the man.

It is then, of course, that the other tiger emerges from the cave. 

Spurred on by the cries of its partner, the tiger charges ahead from the shadows unhampered by the crusted gash torn anew at its flank from the burst of speed. It heads straight for Vega. He remembers golden sap oozing from the bite meant for him, his friend laying in a mangled heap. The adrenaline flares in his gut, Fredrik feels the familiar pool of heat like magma boiling to the surface of his skin. He vowed to never let that happen again. He has to get there first. 

As if responding to his will the fires within surge to his feet, powering his legs to run faster, push harder and with a guttural roar he wrenches his greatsword over his head and jumps. A sundering leap that closes the distance in an instant, sailing over Vega’s body and when he feels the pull of his stomach as he drops he thrusts his blade down at full swing. 

The blade comes down with the force of Ogden’s Hammer lodging deep within the tiger’s neck and time grinds to a halt. His boots hit the ground, solid and firm, his grip on the hilt twice so. The tiger stays stock still, as though it knows the inevitability of struggle; pulling secures the hook tighter yet pushing wedges the blade deeper, with the weapon stuck and Fredrik’s grip unrelenting there is nowhere left for it to go.

With a grunt Fredrik lifts the blade, metal pulls from flesh with a wet squelch and the tiger staggers. Blood drips in thick globs sinking into snow, staining the orange fur matted to its hide. Its nostrils flare, its breaths a low pained wheeze as its strength leaves entirely and it falls to its side. 

Fredrik stands to his full height, chest heaving as the adrenaline disperses and he’s left breathing through his mouth with harsh gasps, puffs of cold air blurring his vision. Yet he locks eyes with the fallen creature, amethyst to yellow unblinking as their breaths form in sync; he wants to watch its last moments—A final act for a worthy opponent. 

Time drags on, the seconds feel like an eternity before the tiger’s eyes shift away unfocussed and dull. Eventually one exhale becomes its last and the rise and fall of its chest remains stagnant. The life drains from its body and the vibrancy of its coat leaves with it, fur dried and shriveled by the strand leaving the corpse but a husk of its former sheen to be buried among the snow.

Fredrik lifts his head high, savouring the victory. Finally. After weeks of whittling the creatures down, chasing them all across Tyria—finally a win.

A soft groan pulls him from his reverie. Sheathing his blade to the ground Fredrik bends to kneel at Vega’s side, the man’s crimson eyes blinking blearily at him. 

“You know, I think Tekotes was right after all.” He isn’t sure if his words are registering properly for the dazed Sylvari but he grins down at him all the same, “You really are an idiot.”

“Says the guy who threw the sword.” Vega scoffs back at him weakly.

“Fair enough.” Fredrik laughs. If he’s well enough to joke then he’s fine. He grabs both of Vega arms and lifts him to his feet gingerly, “Are you okay?”

“The armour took the brunt of it.” Vega rolls his shoulders with a wince, turning back to salvage what’s left of his broken quiver. He straps the two intact arrows to his side and musters Fredrik with a raised brow, “I take it that you managed to kill the tiger?” 

“Not the one we were fighting.” Fredrik steps aside to reveal the fallen beast, “It came out of the cave after you pulled the other one from the mountainside. Even on its last legs it still gave its partner enough time to escape.”

“Did you see where it went?”

“I was a little preoccupied, trying to save you from being eaten.”

Vega glow flushes red at that and if Fredrik didn’t know any better he would say the man looked quite bashful.  
“I am glad you succeeded then.” He casts his eyes downward, staring at the tiger for a moment as though waiting for something and after all this time Fredrik understands.

“Feel anything?” He’s not sure how finding the bow works exactly but if defeating the beast is an integral part of it then surely something has to happen.

Vega shakes his head and continues on, setting his gaze on to the cliffside, “Let’s keep going before the tiger gains too much ground.”

“Right.” Fredrik supposes it was just wishful thinking that the solution would come so easily and follows Vega’s lead with an exasperated grimace, not looking forward to the climb overhead. “I think I’ve had enough of scaling cliffs to last me a lifetime though.”

“Then you’re in luck.” Vega announces a small distance above.

Fredrik catches up with the Sylvari, clambering up the rocks and looks down at what can only be described as a gaping hole, pinning Vega with a frown. He can’t be serious.  
“That’s a skritt tunnel.”

“Yes, one that leads to the scratch in Dissun’s Mine.” Vega informs him, “The tiger could not have scaled the mountainside so quickly with its wounds; this must be where it escaped to.”

In hindsight Fredrik has to admit, sliding down the tunnel is much more welcome than climbing down the jagged icy slopes but when they reach the bottom, boots landing on timber planks with a deafening thud, he could have done without the hoard of screeching high-strung skritt that skittered to meet them.

“Intruders!” They hiss and prod threateningly with their makeshift weapons, “Friend or foe? Dredge or no?”

Normally Fredrik would not feel unnerved by refuse tied together on a stick but his last encounter with the jittery rat-folk did not end so well and so he lifts both hands in a placating manner. “We land in your home as friends, little ones. Not in any way associated with the Dredge.”

The skritt circle around them with their noses upturned and after careful inspection chitter happily, “Yes! Smell Dredge blood! You good!”

He isn’t sure he’s happy about smelling like that but he’ll take what he can get. Vega steps forward, not having the patience for anymore antics, “Has a tiger come through here? A big white cat?”

The skritt preen in unison, a cascading howl of laughters as they lift their weapons triumphantly, “Yes! Yes! Big scaredy-cat! We chase out!”

That’s all they needed to hear.

 

They emerge from Dissun’s Mine into the waiting silence of Steelbrachen, snowflakes pattering lightly from darkened grey skies weighing down the pine trees scattered throughout the plains. It is a flat expanse of snow, left untouched—making the frozen tiger tracks leading north easy to spot. 

“Well that turned out better than expected.” Fredrik takes in the crisp winter air, relishing it after the thin draught high up in the mountains and the dank moistness of the skritt tunnels.

“It couldn’t have gone far.” Vega traces the paw print with his finger and makes to stand from his crouch. 

Then as though lightning shot through his entire being, Vega locks up, neck snapped at attention and he squeezes his eyes shut. His knees buckle as he clutches his head with a pained gasp.

“Woah! Hey-” Fredrik barely catches him before he falls over, “That fall hit you more than you thought huh?” He tries to make light of it even though the scowl of his features says otherwise.

“No it’s-” Vega rights himself, his hand trembling against his head as the pain subsides, leaving stunned nerve-stricken eyes staring out in its wake, “Something’s wrong. I...I have to go back to the Grove.”

“Now I know you’ve lost it.” He remembers how adamant the Sylvari had been not to go to that place, for him to suddenly decide during the middle of the hunt— 

“You don’t understand. It’s the Pale Mother.” Something about invoking that name brings with it a biting chill, or perhaps it is the way Vega’s voice denotes such peril, one that he’s never heard from the man before.

“She’s dying.”


End file.
